A    NEW  "GRAY  PHANTOM 


DECT 


STORY 


A  Mystery  Story  of  New  York's 
Lower  East  Side 

THE  GRAY 
PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


By  HERMAN  LANDON 


The  story  begins  with  the  dis- 
covery of  the  mysterious  murder 
of  Sylvanus  Gage,  in  the  room 
which  he  occupied  back  of  his 
cigar  store  in  East  Houston  street, 

All  the  elements  surrounding 
the  murder,  and  the  methods  used, 
point  to  the  "Gray  Phantom,"  the 
'beloved  crook,"  as  the  perpetra- 
tor of  the  crime. 

The  story  fairly  bristles  with  ad- 
venture, including  desperate  en- 
counters with  the  police,  exciting 
chases  over  tenement  roofs,  hair- 
breadth escapes,  exchanged  per- 
sonalities— in  fact,  every  thrill 
maginable  to  satisfy  the  lover  of 
nystery  stories. 

The  reader  will  find  an  agree- 
ible  romance  to  lend  added  in- 
erest  to  this  clever  =>nd  exciting 
nystery  story. 

Another  Book  by  Herman  Landon: 

THE  GRAY  PHANTOM 


I  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 


J9&.H 


IE*  ICtbrts 


SEYMOUR  DURST 


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Because  it  has  been  said 
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Avery  Architectural  and  Fine  Arts  Library 
Gift  of  Seymour  B.  Durst  Old  York  Library 


The  Gray  Phantom's  Return 


THE  GRAY 
PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


By  HERMAN  LANDON 


Author  of 
"The  Gray  Phantom" 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 
Publishers  New  York 

Published  by  arrangement  with  TV.  J.  Watt  &  Company 
Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


Copyright,  1922,  by 
W.  J.  WATT  &  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 


THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


CHAPTER  I 

FROM  DYING  LIPS 

PATROLMAN  JOSHUA  PINTO,  walking  his 
beat  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  hummed  a 
joyless  tune  as  he  turned  off  the  Bowery  and 
swung  into  East  Houston  Street.  It  was  a  wet  night, 
with  a  raw  wind  sweeping  around  the  street  corners, 
and  Pinto  walked  along  with  an  air  of  dogged  per- 
sistence, as  if  trying  to  make  the  best  of  a  disagree- 
able duty.  His  heavy  and  somewhat  florid  features 
were  expressionless.  For  all  that  his  face  indicated, 
he  might  have  been  thinking  that  it  was  a  fine  night 
for  a  murder,  or  wishing  that  he  was  in  plain  clothes 
instead  of  uniform,  or  picturing  himself  in  his  cozy 
home  playing  with  his  baby,  whose  lusty  "da-da's" 
and  ugoo-goo's"  he  was  pleased  to  interpret  as  won- 
derful linguistic  achievements. 

Perhaps  it  was  nothing  but  instinct  that  caused 
him  to  slow  down  his  pace  as  he  passed  a  squatty 
and  rather  dilapidated  building  in  the  middle  of  the 
block.  So  far  as  appearances  went,  it  did  not  differ 
greatly  from  its  drab  and  unprepossessing  neighbors, 
yet  Pinto  cast  a  sharp  glance  at  the  ground-floor 
window,  which  bore  a  lettered  sign  proclaiming  that 
the  premises  were  occupied  by  Sylvanus  Gage,  dealer 


2         THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


m  pipes,  tobacco,  and  cigars.  As  if  the  building  hacl 
cast  a  spell  of  gloom  upon  him,  the  patrolman  ceased 
his  humming,  and  his  lips  were  set  in  a  tight  line  as 
he  proceeded  down  the  block. 

Being  an  ambitious  and  hard-working  officer,  Pinto 
made  it  a  practice  to  cultivate  the  acquaintance  of  as 
many  as  possible  of  the  people  living  along  his  beat. 
He  knew  Sylvanus  Gage,  a  thin,  stoop-shouldered 
man  with  a  flowing  beard,  a  black  cap  adorning  his 
bald  skull,  and  mild  blue  eyes  that  had  a  habit  of 
gazing  lugubriously  at  the  world  through  thick  lenses 
rimmed  with  tarnished  gold.  Despite  his  patri- 
archal appearance,  he  was  reputed  to  be  using  his 
tobacco  business  as  a  cloak  for  a  flourishing  traffic 
in  stolen  goods.  So  deftly  did  the  old  man  manage 
his  illicit  enterprises  that  the  police,  though  morally 
certain  of  their  facts,  had  never  been  able  to  pro- 
duce any  evidence  against  him.  Little  was  known  of 
his  housekeeper,  a  sour  and  sharp-tongued  slattern 
of  uncertain  age,  but  there  were  those  who  suspected 
that  she  was  not  entirely  innocent  of  complicity  in 
her  employer's  clandestine  activities. 

It  may  have  been  of  this  Pinto  was  thinking  as  he 
„  plodded  along  with  the  measured  gait  of  the  sea- 
soned patrolman.  The  soggy  sidewalks  glistened  in 
the  light  from  the  street-corner  lamps,  and  here  and 
there  along  the  pavement  water  was  forming  in  little 
pools.  Most  of  the  windows  were  dark  and,  save 
for  an  occasional  shifty-eyed  and  furtively  slinking 
pedestrian,  the  streets  were  deserted.  Pinto  halted 
for  a  moment  to  look  at  his  watch,  then  quickened  his 
steps,  "pulled"  the  buff-colored  box  on  the  corner, 
and  trudged  on  again. 

Once  more  he  wTas  humming  a  tune.  Each  of  the 
scattered  prowlers  he  met  was  subjected  to  a  critical 
scrutiny  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye.   Now  and  then 


FROM  DYING  LIPS 


3 


he  (lodged  into  a  rdark  doorway  and  tried  a  lock. 
From  time  to  time  he  glanced  through  the  window 
of  a  store  or  shop.  It  was  all  a  matter  of  habit  with 
Joshua  Pinto.  For  seven  years  he  had  pursued  the 
same  dull  routine,  varied  only  by  an  occasional  trans- 
fer to  another  part  of  the  city,  or  by  a  change  from 
night  to  day  duty,  or  vice  versa.  He  had  broken  up 
a  few  nocturnal  street  brawls,  now  and  then  he  had 
foiled  the  designs  of  a  second-story  artisan,  and  on 
two  or  three  occasions  he  had  caught  a  safe-blower 
red-handed,  but  nothing  very  exciting  had  ever  hap- 
pened to  him. 

On  this  particular  night,  however,  an  acute  ob- 
server might  have  noticed  an  air  of  disquietude  about 
Officer  Pinto.  There  was  the  merest  hint  of  uneasi- 
ness in  the  way  he  twirled  his  nightstick  as  he  walked 
along,  in  the  intensified  alertness  with  which  he  in- 
spected the  occasional  passers-by,  in  the  quick  and 
somewhat  nervous  glances  he  cast  up  and  down  the 
shabby  streets.  Likely  as  not  the  rain  and  the  wind, 
together  with  the  gloom  pervading  the  district,  were 
responsible  for  his  state  of  mind,  and  possibly  his 
physical  discomfort  was  aggravated  by  a  premonition 
— though  Pinto  himself  would  have  called  it  a 
"hunch" — that  a  tragic  event  was  soon  to  enliven  the 
tedium  of  his  existence. 

Again  his  footsteps  dragged  as  once  more  He 
strolled  past  the  establishment  of  Sylvanus  Gage. 
The  building  was  dark  and  still,  like  most  of  the 
others  in  the  block,  yet  something  prompted  Pinto 
to  cast  a  suspicious  glance  at  the  door  and  windows, 
as  if  he  sensed  an  omen  in  the  shadows  clinging  to 
the  wall. 

He  stoppe'd  abruptly  as  a  'door  slammed  and  a 
shrill  feminine  voice  called  his  name.  A  woman, 
scantily  dressed  and  with  loosened  hair  fluttering  in 


4 


THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


the  wind,  was  hurrying  toward  him  with  excited 
gestures. 

"Officer!''  She  clutched  his  sleeve  and  pointed 
toward  the  tobacco  shop.    "There — hurry!" 

The  patrolman's  eyes  followed  her  pointing  finger. 
A  second-story  window  opened  above  their  heads 
and  a  frowsy  person,  disturbed  by  the  woman's  harsh 
voice,  looked  down  into  the  street.  Pinto  regarded 
the  speaker  with  apparent  unconcern,  recognizing 
the  housekeeper  of  Sylvanus  Gage.  Another 
window  opened  across  the  street,  and  a  second  face 
looked  down  on  them. 

Officer  Pinto,  schooled  by  previous  experiences 
with  overexcited  females,  casually  inquired  what 
might  be  the  matter. 

''Matter!"  retorted  the  woman.  "Murder — 
that's  what's  the  matter.  Why  don't  you  get  a  move 
on?" 

Pinto  permitted  himself  to  be  led  along.  The 
driver  of  a  milk  wagon  halted  his  nag  to  watch  the 
commotion.  The  woman,  jabbering  and  shivering, 
opened  the  door  of  the  tobacco  store,  pushed  the 
officer  inside  and  switched  on  the  light  above  the 
counter. 

"There!"  She  pointed  at  a  door  in  the  rear  of 
the  dingy  shop.  "He — Mr.  Gage — sleeps  back 
there." 

"Well,  what  of  it?"  An  impatient  look  cloaked 
Pinto's  real  feelings.  "He's  got  to  sleep  some  place, 
ain't  he?" 

The  woman's  eyes  blazed.  "You  stand  there 
handing  out  sass  while  he — he  may  be  dying  back 
there."  Trying  to  steady  herself,  she  gathered  up 
the  folds  of  the  tattered  robe  she  wore.  "My  room's 
right  above  his,"  she  explained.    "A  few  moments 


FROM  DYING  LIPS 


5 


ago  I  jumped  out  of  bed,  thinking  Fd  heard  a 
sound." 

"A  sound,  eh?  This  town  is  chockfull  of  them 
things."  Pinto  leveled  an  uneasy  glance  at  the  door 
in  the  rear.  "What  kind  of  sound  was  it  you  thought 
you  heard?" 

"What  kind  of  sound!  You  ain't  paid  for  asking 
fool  questions,  Officer  Pinto.  All  day  long  I  felt  in 
my  bones  that  something  awful  was  going  to  hap- 
pen, and  when  that  noise  woke  me  up  T  was  scared 
stiff.  I  grabbed  a  few  clothes  and  ran  down  here, 
but  the  door  to  Mr.  Gage's  room  was  bolted  on  the 
inside.  He  always  shoots  the  bolt  before  he  goes 
to  bed.  I  knocked,  but  not  a  sound  came  from  the 
inside.  Then  I  shouted  loud  enough  to  raise  the 
dead,  but  " 

"Your  boss  is  hard  of  hearing,  ain't  he?" 

"A  little.    Say,  why  don't  you  do  something?" 

Pinto  walked  to  the  outer  door,  shooed  away  a 
knot  of  curious  spectators,  then  sauntered  back  to 
where  the  woman  stood.  There  was  a  supercilious 
grin  on  his  lips,  but  deep,  in  his  eyes  lurked  an  uneasy 
gleam. 

"So  you've  been  feeling  in  your  bones  that  some- 
thing awful  was  going  to  happen,"  he  gibingly  ob- 
served. "Then  you  hear  a  noise,  and  right  away 
you  yell  murder.  You've  got  some  imagination,  you 
have.  I  ain't  going  to  break  in  on  a  sleeping  man 
just  because  your  bones  feel  funny.  Mine  do,  too, 
once  in  a  while,  but  I  don't  make  any  fuss  about  it. 
No,  sir-ee!    You  might  as  Avell  trot  back  to  bed." 

The  woman  pulled  at  the  folds  of  her  robe.  "I 
haven't  told  you  all  yet."  She  spoke  fast  and  low, 
gazing  fixedly  at  the  door  in  the  rear.  "Yesterday 
afternoon  Mr.  Gage  got  a  letter  from — from  a 
party  he's  got  good  reason  to  be  scared  of.  He 


6         THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


hadn't  heard  from  him  in  years,  and  he'd  been  hop- 
ing he  was  rid  of  him  for  good.  Well,  I  was  watch- 
ing him  while  he  read  the  letter,  and  I  saw  him  turn 
white  as  a  sheet.  Later,  while  he  was  out  to  lunch, 
I  went  to  his  desk  and  read  the  letter.  I  was  just 
that  curious.  It  told  Mr.  Gage  that  the  writer  would 
call  on  him  inside  forty-eight  hours." 
"Was  that  all?" 

"All  but  the  name  at  the  bottom — and  the  name: 
was  the  main  thing." 
"Eh?" 

"It  was  the  name  of  the  man  Mr.  Gage  has  been 
afraid  of  all  these  years.  When  I  saw  that  name 
at  the  bottom  of  the  note  I  felt  a  chill  all  over. 
Say,"  raising  her  voice,  "why  don't  you  break  in  that 
door?" 

Pinto  stroked  his  chin,  as  if  strongly  impressed  by 
what  the  woman  had  told  him.  Another  group  of 
spectators  had  gathered  at  the  entrance,  and  he 
gruffly  ordered  them  to  disperse.  Then  he  faced  the 
inner  door,  turned  the  knob,  pushed.  The  door  did 
not  yield,  and  he  looked  back  over  his  shoulder. 

"Whose  name  was  signed  to  the  note?"  he  de- 
manded. 

A  look  of  awe  crossed  the  housekeeper's  face. 
She  raised  a  bony  arm  and  steadied  herself  against 
the  counter.  A  grayish  pallor  had  suffused  her 
shriveled  features. 

"I — I  can't  tell  you,"  she  whispered.  "I  mustn't. 
Hurry — for  Heaven's  sake!" 

Something  of  her  excitement  seemed  to  have  been 
communicated  to  Pinto,  but  even  now  he  appeared 
loath  to  attack  the  door. 

"If  your  boss  was  so  all-fired  scared  of  the  guy, 
that  sent  him  the  note,  why  didn't  he  call  up  the 
police?"  he  queried  suspiciously.  Then  a  look  o£ 
comprehension  dawned  in  his  face.  "I  guess,  though', 


FROM  DYING  LIPS 


7 


that  he  wasn't  very  anxious  to  have  the  department 
butt  into  his  affairs,  and  maybe  he  thought  the  other 
fellow's  bite  was  worse'n  his  bark.  Well,  here 
goes." 

He  stepped  back  a  few  paces,  squared  his  shoul- 
ders for  action,  then  hurled  his  massive  figure  against 
the  door.  The  woman  stood  rigid,  straining  for- 
ward a  little,  yet  holding  her  hands  before  her  face 
as  if  dreading  the  sight  that  might  meet  her  eyes. 
Again  and  again  Pinto  flung  his  body  against  the 
!door,  and  finally,  with  a  crash  and  a  long  splintering 
sound,  it  flew  open,  precipitating  him  headlong  into 
the  inner  room. 

A  queer  sound  rose  in  the  woman's  throat  and  she 
lowered  her  hands.  She  made  as  if  to  follow  the 
policeman,  but  something  held  her  back.  From 
where  she  stood,  staring  through  the  doorway,  she 
could  see  that  the  inner  room  was  dark,  and  she 
heard  the  policeman's  grunts  and  mutterings  as  he 
struggled  to  regain  his  feet.  Then  came  an  interval 
of  silence,  broken  only  by  groping  footfalls,  and 
presently  a  light  appeared  in  the  rear.  Pinto  had 
found  the  electric  switch. 

The  housekeeper  shuddered  as  an  exclamation 
issued  from  the  other  room.  Evidently  the  officer 
had  discovered  something.  Crouching  in  front  of 
the  counter,  she  strained  her  ears,  listening.  Pinto 
was  speaking  in  low,  quick  accents,  but  she  could  not 
make  out  the  words,  and  she  heard  no  answering 
voice. 

Finally,  Pinto  came  out.    His  face  was  a  little 
white  and  his  lips  were  set  in  a  tight  line. 
"He's  dead,"  he  declared. 

The  woman  shrank  back  against  the  counter. 
"Murdered?" 

The  officer  bawled  a  command  to  the  neck-cran- 
ing group  at  the  entrance  to  stand  back.  Without 


8 


THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


answering  the  housekeeper's  question,  he  lookecl 
quickly  about  the  store  till  he  spied  a  telephone  on 
a  shelf  behind  the  counter.  The  woman  listened  ab- 
stractedly as  he  called  a  number  and  spoke  a  few 
words  into  the  transmitter.  Then  he  stepped  out 
from  behind  the  counter  and  faced  her. 

uYour  boss  is  lying  on  the  floor  in  there,"  he  an- 
nounced, jerking  his  huge  head  toward  the  inner 
room,  "with  a  knife  wound  in  his  chest.  He  was 
breathing  his  last  just  as  I  got  to  him.1' 

The  housekeeper  jerked  herself  up,  a  look  of 
sullen  passion  in  her  blanched  face.  "Breathing  his 
last,  was  he?"  Her  voice  was  loud  and  shrill. 
"Then  he  wasn't  dead  yet!  If  you'd  hurried,  as  I 
told  you  to,  we  might  have  saved  his  life.  I'll  report 
you  for  this,  Officer  Pinto." 

"Cut  that  stuff!  Nothing  could  have  saved  hinru 
He  was  too  far  gone.  Say,"  and  Pinto  bored  his 
sharp  eyes  into  her  twitching  face,  "what  name  was 
signed  to  that  letter?" 

Twice  she  opened  her  lips  to  speak,  but  no  words 
came. 

"Out  with  it!    You've  got  to  tell  me  now." 

The  woman  swallowed.  "Why  do  you  want  to 
know?"  she  asked  faintly. 

"I've  got  a  reason.  Just  as  Gage  was  drawing  his 
last  breath,  I  got  down  beside  him  and  asked  him  if 
he  could  tell  me  who  stabbed  him.  I  guess  he  read 
my  lips;  anyhow,  he  was  able  to  whisper  a  name..  I 
want  to  know  if  it  jibes  with  the  name  signed  to  the 
letter  Gage  got  yesterday." 

"Well,  then" — she  pressed  her  hands  against  her 
breast — "the  name  on  the  letter  was  the  Gray  Phan- 
tom's." 

Pinto  ejaculated  hoarsely. 

"It  jibes,  all  right!"  he  declared. 


CHAPTER  II 


THE  MISSING  BAUBLE 

JUST  then  a  youngish  man  with  a  slouching  gait 
and  a  dead  cigar  between  his  teeth  pushed 
through  the  little  knot  of  spectators  at  the  en- 
trance and  leveled  a  mildly  inquisitive  glance  at 
Pinto  and  the  housekeeper. 

The  patrolman,  after  introducing  the  new  arrival 
as  Lieutenant  Culligore  of  the  detective  bureau,  told 
briefly  what  he  had  discovered. 

Culligore  doffed  his  dripping  raincoat  and  banged 
his  soggy  slouch  hat  against  the  counter.  His  dull 
face  and  sluggish  manners  gave  the  impression  that 
he  was  never  quite  awake,  but  now  and  then  a  furtive 
little  gleam  in  his  cinnamon-colored  eyes  betrayed  a 
saving  sense  of  humor.  He  seemed  unimpressed 
until  Pinto  reached  that  point  in  his  story  where  the 
'dying  man  had  told  the  name  of  his  assailant.  Then 
Culligore  curled  up  his  lip  against  the  tip  of  his 
nose,  as  was  his  habit  when  interested  in  something, 
and  motioned  the  patrolman  to  follow  him  into  the 
inner  room. 

There  was  an  indefinable  air  about  the  chamber 
that  vaguely  suggested  the  abode  of  one  whose  life 
is  hidden  from  the  world.  The  ragged  carpet  and 
the  ancient  wall  paper  were  of  neutral  tones,  and  the 
atmosphere  was  stale  and  oppressive,  as  if  seldom 
freshened  by  sun  or  wind.  Lieutenant  Culligore's 
drowsily  blinking  eyes  traveled  over  the  scene,  yet  he. 

9 


10       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


appeared  to  see  nothing.  The  safe  In  a  corner 
seemed  rather  too  large  for  the  modest  requirements 
of  a  tobacconist.  Near  by  stood  an  ink-stained  writ- 
ing desk  and  a  chair.  The  clothing  on  the  narrow 
iron  cot  looked  as  though  the  occupant,  suddenly  dis- 
turbed in  his  sleep,  had  sprung  from  it  in  a  hurry. 

In  the  center  of  the  room  lay  a  curiously  twisted 
figure,  garbed  in  pajamas  of  pink  flannel.  Over  the 
heart  was  a  dull  stain,  and  the  right  arm  lay  across 
the  chest  in  a  manner  hinting  that  the  dead  man  had 
used  his  last  ounce  of  strength  to  ward  off  a  blow. 
One  of  the  legs  was  drawn  up  almost  to  the  abdo- 
men, and  the  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  ceiling  in  a 
glassy  stare. 

"Well,  Pinto?"  Culligore  looked  as  though  he  ex- 
pected the  patrolman  to  do  the  necessary  thinking. 

"The  corpse  told  me  the  Gray  Phantom  did  it," 
said  Pinto  in  a  tone  of  finality.  "Don't  you  think 
we'd  better  start  a  general  alarm,  sir?" 

"Corpses  are  sometimes  mistaken,  Pinto."  The 
lieutenant  fumbled  for  a  match  and  slowly  kindled 
his  cigar.  "I'll  bet  a  pair  of  pink  socks  that  the 
Phantom  had  nothing  to  do  with  this.  The  Phantom 
always  fought  clean.  I'd  hate  like  blue  blazes  to 
think  that  he  pulled  off  this  job." 

Pinto  scowled  a  little,  as  if  he  couldn't  quite  under- 
stand why  Culligore  should  reject  an  easy  solution: 
of  the  mystery  when  it  came  to  him  ready-made. 

"By  the  way,"  and  Culligore  fixed  an  indolent  eye 
on  the  electric  fixture  above  the  desk,  "was  the  light 
on  or  off  when  you  broke  in?" 

"It  was  off,  sir.    I  turned  it  on  myself." 

Culligore  thought  for  a  moment.  "Well,  that 
doesn't  mean  much.  The  murderer  might  have 
switched  it  off  before  he  made  his  get-away,  or  the 
room  might  have  been  dark  all  the  time.    I'd  give 


THE  MISSING  BAUBLE 


11 


a  good  smoke  to  know  whether  the  murder  was  clone 
in  the  light  or  the  dark." 

Pinto's  eyes  widened  inquiringly. 

"You  see,  Pinto,  if  the  light  was  on  we  can  take 
it  for  granted  Gage  saw  the  murderer's  face.  If  the 
room  was  dark,  then  he  was  just  guessing  when  he 
told  you  it  was  the  Phantom.  It  would  have  been  a 
natural  guess,  too,  for  he  would  be  very  apt  to  sup- 
pose that  the  murderer  was  the  man  who  had  sent 
him  the  threatening  letter.  Since  we  can't  know 
whether  Gage  was  stabbed  in  the  light  or  the  dark, 
we'd  better  forget  what  he  told  you  and  take  a  fresh 
start."  His  eyes  flitted  about  the  room,  and  a  flicker 
of  interest  appeared  in  their  depths.  "How  do  you 
suppose  the  murderer  got  out,  Pinto?" 

The  patrolman  looked  significantly  at  the  single 
window  in  the  room.  Culligore  took  a  spiral  tape 
measure  from  the  little  black  box  he  always  carried 
when  at  work  on  a  homicide  case  and  measured  the 
width  of  the  narrow  sash. 

"Too  small,"  he  declared.  "You'd  have  to  yank 
in  your  belt  several  notches  before  you  could  crawl 
through  a  window  of  this  size,  Pinto.  Anyhow,  it's 
latched  from  the  inside." 

A  look  of  perplexity  in  his  reddish  face,  Pinto 
turned  to  the  door.  He  looked  a  bit  dazed  as  he 
noticed  the  damage  he  had  wrought  in  forcing  it. 
One  of  the  panels  was  cracked  in  the  center,  and  the 
slot  in  which  the  bolt  had  rested  had  been  torn  out 
of  the  frame. 

"You  see,  Pinto."  There  was  a  grin  on  Culli- 
gore's  lips.  "The  murderer  couldn't  have  got  out 
of  the  window,  because  it's  much  too  small,  and  he 
couldn't  have  walked  out  through  the  door,  because 
it  was  bolted  from  the  inside.  There's  no  transom, 
so  he  could  not  have  adjusted  the  bolt  from  the  other 


12       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


side.  Nobody  has  yet  figured  out  a  way  of  passing 
through  a  door  or  window  and  leaving  it  bolted  on 
the  inside." 

Pinto  stared  at  the  door,  at  the  window,  and 
finally  at  Culligore.  The  problem  seemed  beyond 
him.  Then  he  took  his  baton  and,  tapping  as  he 
went,  explored  every  square  foot  of  floor  and  walls, 
but  no  hollow  sounds  betrayed  the  presence  of  a 
hidden  opening.  He  shook  his  head  in  a  flabber- 
gasted way. 

"It's  possible,  of  course,"  suggested  the  lieuten- 
ant, "that  the  murderer  was  still  in  the  room  when 
you  broke  in.  He  might  have  made  his  get-away 
in  the  dark  while  you  were  hunting  for  the  light- 
switch." 

"The  housekeeper  would  have  seen  him,"  Pinto 
pointed  out.  "She  was  standing  just  outside.  And 
there  was  a  crowd  at  the  entrance.  Say,"  and  a 
startled  look  crossed  his  face,  "do  you  suppose  Gage 
killed  himself?" 

"That  would  be  an  easy  solution,  all  right.  But, 
if  he  did,  what  was  his  idea  in  telling  you  that 
the  Phantom  had  done  it?  And  I  don't  see  any  knife 
around.  Gage  wouldn't  have  had  the  strength  to 
pull  it  out  of  the  wound,  and,  even  if  he  had,  how 
did  he  dispose  of  it?  No,  Pinto,  Gage  was  mur- 
dered, and — hang  it  all! — it's  beginning  to  look  as 
though  the  Phantom  did  it." 

"But  you  just  said  " 

"All  I'm  saying  now  is  that  it's  beginning  to  look 
as  if  the  Phantom  had  had  a  hand  in  it.  Things 
aren't  always  what  they  seem,  you  know.  I'm  not 
taking  much  stock  in  what  Gage  told  you  just  before 
he  died.  There  are  other  reasons.  One  of  them 
is  the  size  of  that  window.  Another  is  the  fact  that 
the  door  was  bolted  on  the  inside.    Together  they 


THE  MISSING  BAUBLE 


13 


show  that  the  man  who  committed  this  murder  ac- 
complished something  of  a  miracle  in  getting  out  of 
the  room.  The  Phantom  is  the  only  man  I  know 
who  can  do  that  sort  of  thing." 

He  grinned  sheepishly,  as  if  conscious  of  having 
said  something  that  sounded  extravagant. 

"Stunts  like  that  are  the  Phantom's  long  suit,"  he 
went  on.  "He  likes  to  throw  dust  in  the  eyes  of  the 
police  and  keep  everybody  guessing.  But  he  was 
always  a  gentlemanly  rascal,  and  it  takes  something 
besides  a  bolted  door  and  a  window  latched  on  the 
inside  to  make  me  believe  he  has  gotten  down  to  dirty 
work.    Wish  the  medical  examiner  would  hurry  up." 

He  took  a  cover  from  the  cot  and  threw  it  over 
the  upper  part  of  the  body.  A  chance  glance  toward 
the  door  made  him  pause.  Just  across  the  threshold, 
with  hands  clasped  across  her  breast  and  eyes  fixed 
rigidly  on  the  lifeless  heap  on  the  floor,  stood  the 
housekeeper.  She  awoke  with  a  start  from  her  rev- 
erie as  she  felt  the  lieutenant's  steady  gaze  on  her 
face,  and  she  shrank  back  a  step.  With  a  puckering 
of  the  brows,  Culligore  turned  away.  His  eyes  fell 
on  the  safe. 

A  pull  at  the  knob  told  him  it  was  locked.  He 
took  a  magnifying  lens  from  his  kit  and  carefully 
'examined  the  surface.  Then,  with  a  shake  of  the 
head  signifying  he  had  found  no  finger  prints,  he 
crooked  his  index  finger  at  the  housekeeper.  She 
advanced  reluctantly,  and  Culligore  studied  her  with 
a  sidelong  glance. 

"You  needn't  talk  unless  you  want  to,"  he  said 
gently.  "The  department  isn't  offering  you  any  im- 
munity. We've  known  for  some  time  that  Gage  was 
running  a  fence,  though  we  never  got  the  goods  on 
him." 

The  woman,  standing  in  a  crouching  attitude  and 


14       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


studiously  avoiding  Culligore's  gaze,  swept  a  tress 
of  moist  gray  hair  from  her  forehead. 

"We've  also  suspected  that  you  have  been  in  ca- 
hoots with  him/'  continued  the  lieutenant  in  casual 
tones.  "Oh,  don't  get  scared.  We  won't  go  into 
that  just  now.  All  I  want  is  that  we  understand 
each  other." 

The  woman  raised  her  head  and  looked  straight 
at  Officer  Pinto,  and  there  was  a  hint  of  dread  in 
her  eyes  as  their  glances  met.  A  puzzled  frown 
crossed  Culligore's  face  as  he  noticed  the  strange 
exchange  of  glances;  then  he  pointed  to  the  safe. 

"Know  how  to  open  it?" 

The  housekeeper  shook  her  head.  "Mr.  Gage 
kept  only  cheap  junk  in  it,  anyhow.  All  he  used  it 
for  was  a  blind." 

"A  blind?" 

"He  had  to  keep  a  lot  of  valuables  in  the  house; 
all  the  time,  and  he  was  always  afraid  of  burglars. 
He  kept  a  lot  of  phony  stuff  in  the  safe,  thinking  if 
burglars  found  it  they  might  be  fooled  and  not  look 
any  further." 

"Ah!  Not  a  bad  idea.  Where  did  he  keep  the 
real  stuff?" 

The  woman  hesitated  for  a  moment;  then,  with  a 
quick  gesture,  she  pointed  to  the  old  wTriting  desk. 

"Gage  wTas  a  shrewd  one,"  observed  the  lieuten- 
ant. "With  a  safe  in  the  room,  nobody  would  think 
of  looking  for  valuables  in  a  broken-down  desk. 
Now,"  drawing  a  little  closer  to  the  woman  and  try- 
ing to  catch  her  shifty  eyes,  "I  wish  you  would  tell 
us  who  killed  him.    I  think  you  know." 

A  tremor  passed  over  the  woman's  ashen  face, 
and  she  fixed  Pinto  wTith  a  look  that  caused  the 
lieutenant  to  lift  his  brows  in  perplexity.  Finally, 
she  pointed  a  finger  at  the  patrolman. 


THE  MISSING  BAUBLE 


15 


"You  heard  what  he  said,  didn't  you?  Mr.  Gage 
told  him  the  Gray  Phantom  did  it.  Isn't  that 
enough?" 

Culligore  regarded  her  narrowly,  as  if  sensing  an 
attempt  at  evasion  in  what  she  had  just  said.  Then 
he  nodded  and  seemed  to  be  searching  his  memory. 

"Let  me  see — Gage  and  the  Phantom  had  some 
kind  of  row  a  few  years  back?" 

The  housekeeper's  "Yes"  was  scarcely  audible. 

44 What  was  it  about?" 

Her  lips  curled  in  scorn.  "That's  what  I  could 
never  understand.  They  were  quarreling  like  two 
overgrown  boys  over  a  piece  of  green  rock.  Imita- 
tion jade  was  what  Mr.  Gage  called  it.  I  never  got 
the  story  straight,  but  it  seems  the  Phantom  had  been 
carrying  it  around  as  a  kind  of  keepsake  for  years. 
He  lost  it  finally,  and  somehow  it  got  into  Mr. 
Gage's  hands.  The  Phantom  wanted  it  back,  but 
Mr.  Gage  was  just  stubborn  enough  to  hang  on  to  it. 
They  had  an  awful  rumpus,  and  I  think  the  Phantom 
threatened  to  get  Mr.  Gage  some  day." 

UA11  that  fuss  about  a  piece  of  phony  jade?  The 
Phantom  must  have  had  some  particular  reason  for 
wanting  it  back.    What  was  it  shaped  like?" 

"It  was  a  funny  kind  of  cross,  with  eight  tips 
to  it." 

"A  Maltese  cross,  maybe."  Lieutenant  Culligore 
whistled  softly.  uThe  Phantom's  a  queer  cuss. 
Likely  as  not  he  thought  more  of  that  piece  of  imi- 
tation jade  than  most  people  would  of  a  thousand 
dollars.  What  I  don't  see  is  why  Gage  wouldn't 
give  it  up.  Unless,"  he  added  with  a  shrewd  grin, 
"he  knew  how  badly  the  Phantom  wanted  it  and 
hoped  to  make  him  cough  up  some  real  dough  for  it. 
Wasn't  that  it?" 

A  shrug  was  the  housekeeper's  only  response. 


16       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


"And  the  Phantom,  of  course,  balked  at  the  idea 
of  paying  good  money  for  his  own  property.  But  it 
seems  Gage  would  have  given  it  up  when  he  saw  that 
it  was  putting  his  life  in  danger.  I  suppose,  though, 
he  thought  the  Phantom  was  only  bluffing.  He 
didn't  believe  anybody  would  commit  a  murder  over 
a  thing  that  could  be  bought  for  a  few  cents." 

Again  the  housekeeper  shot  Pinto  a  queer  glance. 
"If  you  don't  want  me  any  more,  I  think  I'll  " 

"Just  a  moment,"  interrupted  Culligore.  "I  want 
you  to  show  me  the  letter  Gage  got  yesterday." 

With  a  sullen  gesture  she  stepped  to  the  desk, 
fumbled  for  a  few  moments  among  the  drawers, 
then  drew  forth  a  letter  and  handed  it  to  the  lieu- 
tenant. Culligore  examined  the  envelope  and  the 
superscription  under  the  light,  then  pulled  out  the 
enclosure. 

"  'The  Gray  Phantom  neither  forgives  nor  for- 
gets,' "  he  read  aloud.  "Short  and  to  the  point. 
Now  let's  have  a  look  at  the  Maltese  cross.  But 
wait — here's  the  medical  examiner.  You're  late, 
doc." 

"Car  broke  down."  The  examiner,  a  thickset, 
bearded,  crisp-mannered  individual,  put  a  few  ques- 
tions to  Culligore  and  Pinto,  then  uncovered  the 
body,  explored  the  region  of  the  wound  with  an  ex- 
pert touch,  and  finally  jotted  down  a  few  notes  in  a 
red-covered  book.  As  he  rose  from  his  kneeling  po- 
sition, the  lieutenant  gave  him  a  signal  out  of  the 
corner  of  his  eye,  and  the  two  men  left  the  room 
together. 

"Just  one  question,  doc."  Culligore  spoke  in  low 
tones,  as  if  anxious  that  Pinto  and  the  housekeeper 
should  not  hear.  "About  that  wound.  How  long 
did  Gage  live  after  he  was  stabbed?" 

"Not  very  long." 


THE  MISSING  BAUBLE 


17 


"Long  enough  to  tell  Pinto  the  name  of  the  man 
who  stabbed  him?" 

The  examiner  looked  startled.  "Yes,  in  all  prob- 
ability. Say,  you  don't  suspect  that  cop  in  there 
of  " 

"Not  after  what  you've  told  me."  Culligore 
wheeled  on  his  heels  and  re-entered  the  inner  room. 
His  upper  lip  brushed  the  tip  of  his  nose,  signifying 
he  had  learned  something  interesting.  Pinto  was 
replacing  the  cover  over  the  body,  while  the  house- 
keeper, standing  a  few  paces  away,  was  regarding 
him  with  a  fixed,  inscrutable  look. 

"Now  let's  see  the  Maltese  cross,"  directed  the 
lieutenant. 

The  woman  jerked  herself  up.  Her  eyes  held  a 
defiant  gleam,  but  it  died  away  quickly.  With  evi- 
dent reluctance  she  approached  the  desk  and  pointed. 

"There's  a  hidden  drawer  back  there  in  the 
corner,"  she  announced.  "I  don't  know  how  to  open 
it.    You'll  have  to  find  that  out  for  yourself." 

Culligore,  after  looking  in  vain  for  a  concealed 
spring,  took  a  small  tool  from  his  kit.  To  locate 
the  drawer  without  the  woman's  help  would  have 
been  a  difficult  task,  for  it  was  ingeniously  hidden  in 
an  apparently  solid  portion  of  the  desk.  With  a  few 
deft  twists  and  jerks  he  forced  it  open  and  poured 
out  the  contents,  consisting  of  a  great  number  of 
small  objects  wrapped  in  tissue  paper.  Each  of  the 
little  wads  contained  a  diamond.  Unwrapping  one 
after  another,  Culligore  gathered  them  in  a  glittering 
heap  on  the  desk.  The  stones  varied  in  size  andj 
brilliancy.  Occasionally  he  raised  one  of  them  to 
the  light  and  inspected  it  keenly,  satisfying  himself 
of  its  genuineness. 

"Some  eye-teasers!"  he  muttered.  "But  where's 
the  Maltese  cross?" 


18       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


The  housekeeper's  face  went  blank.  She  stared 
at  the  diamonds,  then  at  the  empty  drawer. 

"It  was  there  day  before  yesterday,"  she  declared. 
"Mr.  Gage  showed  it  to  me." 

There  was  an  odd  tension  in  the  lieutenant's 
manner.  "Did  the  Phantom  know  about  the  secret 
drawer  and  how  to  open  it?" 

The  woman,  one  hand  clutching  the  edge  of  the 
'desk,  seemed  to  ponder.  "I  don't  know.  He  might 
have.  The  Phantom  called  on  Mr.  Gage  several 
times  after  they  started  quarreling.    But  " 

"Well,  it  doesn't  matter."  There  was  a  strain 
of  suppressed  disappointment  in  Culligore's  tones, 
and  his  face  hinted  that  an  illusion  was  slipping  away 
from  him.  "It  looks  as  though  the  thing  was  settled. 
The  Gray  Phantom  is  the  only  man  I  know  who 
would  pass  up  some  fifty  thousand  dollars'  worth  of 
diamonds  after  taking  the  trouble  to  steal  a  gewgaw 
worth  about  two  bits." 

With  dragging  gait  he  left  the  room,  stepped  be- 
hind the  counter  outside,  and  spoke  into  the  tele- 
phone. In  a  few  moments  now  the  alarm  would 
go  out  and  a  thousand  eyes  would  be  searching  for 
the  Gray  Phantom.  Culligore,  tarrying  for  a  little 
after  he  had  hung  up  the  receiver,  looked  as  though 
he  were  in  a  mood  to  quarrel  with  his  duty  and  with 
the  facts  staring  him  in  the  face.  Then  he  shrugged, 
as  if  to  banish  regrets  of  which  he  was  half  ashamed, 
and  his  face  bore  a  look  of  dogged  determination 
when  he  stepped  back  into  the  bedroom. 

"We'll  get  him,"  he  announced  with  grim  assur- 
ance. "Inside  fifteen  minutes  there'll  be  a  net  thrown 
around  this  old  town  so  tight  a  mouse  couldn't 
wriggle  through." 

He  picked  up  his  hat  and  kit,  and  just  then  his 


THE  MISSING  BAUBLE 


19 


eyes  fell  on  the  housekeeper's  face.  In  vain  he  ex- 
ercised his  wits  to  interpret  the  sly  gaze  with  which 
she  was  fixing  Patrolman  Pinto. 

Did  it  mean  fear,  suspicion,  horror,  hate,  or  all 
four?  * 


CHAPTER  III 


BLUE  OR  GRAY? 


UTHBERT  VANARDY  was  conscious  of  a 


disquieting  tension   in   the   air.     The  long 


shadows  cast  by  the  trees  that  stood  in  clusters 
on  the  lawn  of  Sea-Glimpse  impressed  him  as  sinister 
harbingers  of  coming  events.  The  wind  had  a  raw 
edge,  and  it  produced  a  dolorous  melody  as  it  went 
moaning  over  the  landscape.  Vanardy  recognized 
the  vague  sense  of  depression  and  foreboding  he 
experienced  as  he  walked  down  the  path  that  wound 
in  and  out  among  flower  beds  and  parterres  of 
shrubbery.  He  had  noticed  it  often  in  the  past,  and 
always  on  the  eve  of  some  tragic  event. 

He  could  not  understand,  for  of  late  his  life  had 
fallen  into  serene  and  humdrum  lines,  and  there  had 
been  no  hint  of  disturbing  occurrences.  His  horti- 
cultural experiments  had  kept  him  well  occupied,  and 
he  had  derived  a  great  deal  of  satisfaction  from  the 
favorable  comments  which  the  products  of  his  gar- 
dens had  created  among  experts  at  the  horticultural 
expositions  in  New  York  and  Boston,  as  well  as  from 
the  speculations  aroused  concerning  the  identity  of 
the  anonymous  exhibitor,  who  for  private  reasons 
preferred  to  remain  unknown.  Nothing  of  an  ex- 
citing nature  had  happened  in  several  months,  and, 
but  for  his  intangible  misgivings,  there  was  no  sign 
of  an  interruption  to  his  tranquil  life. 

On  the  veranda  he  stopped  and  looked  back  into 
the  gathering  dusk.    The  trees  and  shrubs,  colored 


20 


BLUE  OF  GRAY? 


21 


and  distorted  by  his  restless  imagination,  took  on 
weird  contours  and  seemed  to  assume  life  and  mo- 
tion. No  doubt,  he  told  himself,  the  premonitions 
he  had  felt  of  late  were  also  the  products  of  his 
fancy.  They  could  be  nothing  else,  for  he  had  sev- 
ered all  the  links  connecting  him  with  the  old  life. 
Time  had  quieted  all  the  dreams  and  impulses  of  his 
former  self.  He  smiled  as  it  occurred  to  him  that 
his  highest  ambition  at  the  present  moment  was  to 
produce  a  gray  orchid. 

It  was  only  a  whim,  a  diversion  from  more  serious 
work,  but  the  novelty  of  the  experiment,  as  well  as 
the  difficulties  in  the  way,  appealed  to  him.  By  in- 
tricate cross-breeding  he  was  gradually  developing 
an  orchid  of  a  dim,  mystic  gray,  his  favorite  color. 
When  once  evolved,  the  hybrid  should  be  known  as 
the  Phantom  Orchid.  It  would  be  the  living  symbol 
of  whatever  had  been  good  in  his  other  self,  the 
Gray  Phantom. 

His  thoughts  went  back  to  those  other  days  when 
he  had  gone,  like  a  swaggering  Robin  Hood,  from 
one  stupendous  adventure  to  another.  Even  his 
bitterest  enemies,  and  there  had  been  many  of  them, 
had  never  accused  the  Gray  Phantom  of  being  actu- 
ated by  considerations  of  sordid  gain.  The  public 
had  gasped  and  the  police  muttered  maledictions  as 
he  gratified  his  thirst  for  thrills  and  excitement,  al- 
ways playing  the  game  in  strict  accord  with  his  code 
and  invariably  planning  his  exploits  so  that  his  vic- 
tims were  villains  of  a  far  blacker  dye  than  he. 
Always  his  left  hand  had  tossed  away  what  his  right 
hand  had  plucked.  Hospitals,  orphan  asylums  and 
other  philanthropic  organizations  became  the  recip- 
ients of  donations  that  were  never  traced  to  their 
source.  Princely  and  mysterious  gifts  poured  into 
garrets  and  hovels  in  a  way  that  caused  simple- 


22       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


minded  people  to  believe  in  a  return  of  the  day  of 
miracles. 

The  Gray  Phantom,  through  it  all,  maintained  an 
:elusiveness  that  completely  baffled  the  police  and 
clothed  his  identity  in  a  glamourous  haze.  So  as- 
tounding were  his  performances  that  there  were 
those  who  asked  themselves  whether  he  was  not 
practicing  black  magic.  Once,  in  the  early  days  of 
his  career,  he  fell  into  the  clutches  of  the  police,  sat- 
isfying the  superstitious  ones  that  he  was  really  a 
being  of  flesh  and  blood,  but  an  amazing  escape  a 
few  days  later  revived  the  gossip  of  a  rogue  who 
was  in  collusion  with  evil  spirits.  The  Phantom  was 
greatly  amused,  and  spurred  his  energies  to  even 
more  dizzying  flights,  but  there  were  times  when  a 
softer  mood  came  upon  him,  and  then  he  wondered 
why  his  restless  spirit  could  not  have  found  a  dif- 
ferent outlet.  Perhaps  the  reason  was  to  be  found 
in  the  remote  and  dimly  remembered  past  when, 
'friendless  and  homeless,  he  had  derived  his  philos- 
ophy of  life  from  thieving  urchins  and  night-prowl- 
ing gangsters. 

The  years  passed,  and  the  Gray  Phantom's  adven- 
tures made  his  sobriquet  known  from  coast  to  coast, 
but  gradually  the  life  he  was  leading  began  to  pall 
on  him.  His  exploits  no  longer  gave  him  the  thrills 
he  craved,  and  he  began  to  search,  at  first  blindly 
and  haltingly,  for  a  more  satisfying  way  of  unleash- 
ing his  boundless  energies.  There  came  long  lapses 
between  his  adventures,  and  finally  it  began  to  be 
rumored  that  the  Gray  Phantom  had  gone  into  re- 
tirement with  his  accumulated  treasures,  for  no  one 
guessed  that  he  had  flung  away  his  spoils  as  fast  as 
he  garnered  them  in.  Nobody  understood  the  true 
reason  for  the  change  that  had  come  over  him,  and 
the  Phantom  least  of  all. 


BLUE  OR  GRAY 


23 


He  often  wondered  at  the  obscure  impulses  that 
had  impelled  him  to  seek  seclusion  at  Sea-Glimpse, 
a  narrow  stretch  of  wooded  land  surrounded  on 
three  sides  by  jagged  coast  line  and  in  the  rear  by 
forest  and  farm  land.  He  could  not  understand 
them,  except  that  his  new  mode  of  life  gave  him  a 
sense  of  pleasing  remoteness  from  things  he  wished 
to  forget,  and  at  times  he  thought  he  would  be  con- 
tent to  spend  the  rest  of  his  days  in  this  secluded 
nook,  secure  from  intrusion  and  free  to  devote  him- 
self to  his  hobby  and  his  books. 

But  to-night  a  vague  unrest  was  upon  him.  He 
peered  into  the  shadows,  constantly  growing  longer 
and  darker,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  ghostly  figures 
of  his  past  were  reaching  out  for  him.  Perhaps, 
there  was  still  a  forgotten  link  or  two  that  bound 
him  to  the  old  life.  He  shrugged,  as  if  to  banish 
disquieting  thoughts,  and  entered  the  house.  Step- 
ping into  the  library,  he  lighted  his  reading  lamp  and 
took  a  work  on  horticulture  from  the  shelf.  There 
was  a  problem  in  connection  with  the  gray  orchid 
that  he  had  not  yet  been  able  to  work  out  satisfac- 
torily. He  sat  down  and  opened  the  book,  but  the 
print  danced  and  blurred  beneath  his  eyes.  A 
woman's  face  appeared  out  of  nowhere,  the  same 
'face  that  had  haunted  him  in  idle  moments  for 
months.  His  mental  picture  was  dim  and  frag- 
mentary, and  he  could  not  distinctly  remember  evert 
the  color  of  the  hair  or  whether  the  eyes  were  blue 
or  gray,  but  the  vision  pursued  him  with  the  persist- 
ence of  a  haunting  scent  or  a  strain  from  an  old 
familiar  song. 

Helen  Hardwick  and  he  had  shared  several  ad- 
ventures and  perils  together.  Only  a  few  months 
had  elapsed  since  he  rescued  her  from  the  clutches 
of  the  mysterious  "Mr.  Shei,"  the  leader  of  an  arch- 


24       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


conspiracy   which   the   Phantom   had  frustrated. 
About  a  year  before  that  he  had  emerged  from  his 
retreat  for  long  enough  to  restore  to  her  father, 
curator  of  the  Cosmopolitan  Museum,  a  collection 
of  Assyrian  antiques  that  Hardwick  had  spent  the 
best  years  of  his  life  in  gathering,  and  which  had 
been  stolen  by  a  criminal  organization  headed  by 
the  Phantom's  old-time  enemy  and  rival,  "The 
Duke."    To  Vanardy  -the  achievement  had  meant 
little  more  than  a  pleasing  diversion  and  an  oppor- 
tunity to  humiliate  a  man  whose  personality  and 
methods  he  abhorred,  and  Helen  Hardwick's  grati- 
tude had  made  him  feel  that  she  was  giving  him  the 
accolade  of  an  undeserved  knightship.     She  had 
come  to  Sea-Glimpse  to  thank  him,  and  her  parting 
glance  and  smile  were  still  vivid  in  his  recollection. 
He  often  glanced  dreamily  at  the  spot  where  she  had 
stood  when  for  an  instant  her  hand  lingered  within 
his.    With  the  blood  pounding  against  his  temples, 
he  had  exerted  all  his  power  of  will  to  restrain  him- 
self from  calling  her  back.    There  were  times  when 
he  regretted  having  let  her  go  like  that,  without  hope 
of  seeing  her  again,  but  in  his  soberer  moments  he 
saw  the  inevitableness  of  the  outcome.    In  the  eyes 
of  the  world  he  was  still  an  outlaw,  and  too  great  a 
gulf  separated  the  Gray  Phantom  and  Helen  Hard- 
wick.   The  memory  of  her  eyes,  warm,  frank  and 
bright,  would  be  with  him  always.    He  had  her  to 
thank  for  the  finest  emotions  he  had  ever  experi- 
enced, and  he  would  try  to  be  content  with  that. 

She  seemed  little  more  than  a  dream  to  him  now, 
and  even  the  dream  was  fragmentary.  Again  he 
thought  it  strange  that  he  could  not  remember  the 
color  of  her  eyes  or  hair,  and  that  little  remained 
with  him  save  a  misty  and  tantalizing  vision  of  love- 
liness. 


BLUE  OR  GRAY? 


25 


He  closed  the  book  and  passed  to  the  window. 
The  moon  had  risen,  bathing  the  narrow  strip  of 
water  visible  between  the  birches  and  hemlocks  in  a 
white  mist.  The  house,  which  Vanardy  had  restored 
from  the  dilapidated  condition  in  which  he  had 
found  it,  was  silent  save  for  an  occasional  creaking 
of  old  timbers.  Clifford  Wade,  once  his  chief  lieu- 
tenant and  now  the  major-domo  of  his  little  house- 
hold, had  gone  to  the  village  for  the  mail.  The 
Phantom  stood  lost  in  reflections,  his  deep  gray  eyes 
soft  and  luminous.  On  occasion  they  could  sting 
and  stab  like  points  of  steel,  but  in  repose  they  were 
the  eyes  of  a  dreamer.  The  nostrils  were  full  and 
sensitive,  and  the  arch  of  the  lips  was  partly  obscured 
by  a  short-cropped  beard  that  would  have  made  him 
hard  to  recognize  from  his  photograph  in  a  revolving 
case  at  police  headquarters. 

He  turned  as  a  knock  sounded  on  the  door.  A 
fat  man  stepped  through  the  door,  groaning  and  puf- 
fing as  if  the  task  of  carrying  his  huge  body  through 
life  were  the  bane  of  his  existence.  Wade,  the  os- 
tensible owner  of  Sea-Glimpse — for  its  real  master 
was  seldom  seen  beyond  the  boundaries  of  the  estate 
— placed  a  bundle  of  mail  on  the  table,  gave  his 
master  a  long-suffering  look,  and  withdrew. 

With  a  listless  air  Vanardy  glanced  at  the  mail 
and  began  to  unfold  the  newspapers.  He  ran  his 
eyes  over  the  headlines,  and  a  caption,  blacker  and 
larger  than  the  rest,  caught  his  languid  attention. 
He  stared  at  it  for  moments,  as  if  his  brain  were 
unable  to  absorb  its  meaning.  Slowly  and  dazedly 
he  mumbled  the  words: 

DYING  MAN  ACCUSES  THE  GRAY  PHANTOM 

Presently  his  quickening  eye  was  running  down  the 


26       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


column  of  type.  It  was  a  lurid  and  highly  colored 
account  of  the  murder  of  Sylvanus  Gage,  a  crime 
said  by  the  police  to  be  one  of  the  strangest  on 
record.  Headquarters  detectives  confessed  them- 
selves baffled  by  several  of  the  circumstances,  and 
especially  by  the  fact  that  the  murderer  seemed  to 
have  accomplished  the  apparently  impossible  feat  of 
making  his  escape  through  a  door  which  had  been 
found  bolted  on  the  inside  when  the  police  reached 
the  scene. 

The  murder,  it  was  stated,  would  probably  have 
gone  down  in  the  annals  of  crime  as  an  unsolved 
mystery  but  for  the  fact  that  the  dying  man  had 
whispered  the  name  of  his  assailant  to  Patrolman 
Pinto,  who  had  been  summoned  to  the  scene  by  the 
housekeeper,  Mrs.  Mary  Trippe,  after  the  latter  had 
been  disturbed  by  a  mysterious  sound.  The  name 
mentioned  by  the  victim  was  that  of  Cuthbert  Van- 
ardy,  known  internationally  as  the  Gray  Phantom 
and  regarded  by  the  police  as  one  of  the  most  in- 
genious criminals  of  modern  times. 

However,  the  account  went  on,  the  Gray  Phan- 
tom's guilt  would  have  been  clearly  established  even 
without  his  victim's  dying  statement.  It  had  been 
learned  that  for  some  years  a  feud  had  existed  be- 
tween the  two  men  and  that  the  Gray  Phantom  had 
threatened  to  take  his  enemy's  life.  The  total  ab- 
sence of  finger  prints  and  other  tangible  clews 
strongly  suggested  that  the  deed  could  have  been  per- 
petrated only  by  a  criminal  in  the  Phantom's  class. 
The  perplexing  features  added  further  proof  of  the 
Phantom's  guilt.  Who  else  could  have  made  his 
escape  in  such  an  inexplicable  manner?  Who  but 
the  Gray  Phantom,  who  was  known  to  be  pursuing 
a  criminal  career  for  pleasure  and  excitement  rather 
than  for  the  profits  he  derived  from  it,  would  have 


BLUE  OR  GRAY? 


left  behind  him  a  small  fortune  in  perfect  stones, 
taking  nothing  but  a  worthless  curio? 

These  and  other  details  Vanardy  read  with  in- 
terest. He  smiled  as  he  reached  the  concluding  para- 
graph, stating  that  a  countrywide  search  for  the 
murderer  was  in  progress  and  that  the  police  confi- 
dendy  expected  to  make  an  arrest  within  twenty-four 
hours.  He  glanced  at  the  accompanying  likeness  of 
himself,  made  from  a  photograph  taken  in  the  early 
stages  of  his  career. 

"What  drivel !"  he  exclaimed,  tossing  the  paper 
aside.  Then,  one  by  one,  he  glanced  through  the 
other  early  editions  of  the  New  York  evening  news- 
papers. All  featured  the  Gage  murder  on  the  first 
page,  and  all  the  accounts  agreed  in  regard  to  es- 
sential details.  In  The  Evening  Sphere1  s  story  of 
the  crime,  however,  he  detected  a  subde  difference. 
It  presented  the  same  array  of  damning  facts,  point- 
ing straight  to  the  inevitable  conclusion  of  the  Phan- 
tom's guilt,  yet,  between  the  lines,  he  sensed  an 
elusive  quality  that  differentiated  it  from  the  others. 
He  read  it  again,  more  slowly  this  time;  and  here 
and  there,  in  an  oddly  twisted  sentence  or  an  am- 
biguous phrase,  he  caught  a  hint  that  the  writer  of 
the  Sphere* 's  article  entertained  a  secret  doubt  of  the 
Phantom's  guilt. 

The  suggestion  was  so  feeble,  however,  that  a 
casual  reader  would  scarcely  have  noticed  it,  and 
whatever  doubts  the  writer  may  have  felt  were 
smothered  under  a  mass  of  evidence  pointing  in  the 
opposite  direction.  He  threw  the  paper  down  with 
an  air  of  disdain.  Here,  in  this  sheltered  retreat, 
what  the  world  thought  of  him  was  of  no  account. 
Serene  in  his  seclusion,  he  could  snap  his  fingers  at 
its  opinions  and  suspicions.    He  sat  clowrt  at  the 


28       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


piano,  and  a  moment  later  his  finely  tapering  'fingers 
were  flashing  over  the  keys. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  one  of  his  favorite  arias, 
his  hands  began  to  falter.  For  a  time  he  sat  motion- 
less, with  lips  tightening,  gazing  narrowly  at  the 
point  where  Helen  Hardwick  had  stood  at  the  mo- 
ment when  he  held  her  hand.  His  face  was  grim 
and  troubled,  as  if  a  disturbing  thought  had  just 
occurred  to  him.  He  got  up  and  with  long  strides 
passed  to  the  desk,  where  he  pressed  a  button. 

"Wade,"  he  crisply  announced  when  the  fat  man 
reappeared,  "I  am  going  to  New  York  in  the  morn- 

ir,g-" 

Wade  sat  down,  drawing  a  squeaky  protest  from 
an  unoffending  chair.  "To  New — New  York?"  He 
stammered. 

1  'Exactly.  Tell  Dullah  to  pack  my  grip.  I  shall 
leave  early,  about  the  time  you  are  getting  your 
beauty  sleep. " 

Wade  blinked  his  little  eyes.   "But  why,  boss?'1 

"Here's  the  reason."  Vanardy  handed  him  one 
of  the  papers  he  had  been  perusing,  watching  with  an 
amused  smile  the  flabbergasted  look  that  came  into 
the  fat  man's  face  as  he  read.  As  he  approached  the 
end  of  the  article,  wheezy  gasps  and  indignant  mut- 
ters punctuated  the  reading. 

"Rot!"  he  commented  emphatically.  "If  I  wasn't 
a  fat  man  I'd  lick  the  editor  of  this  sheet  within  an 
inch  of  his  life.  Why,  you  always  played  the  game 
according  to  the  code,  boss.  You  never  killed  a  man 
in  all  your  life." 

"No,  never." 

"And  you  were  right  Here  at  Sea-Glimpse  at  thl 
time  the  murder  was  done." 

"True  enough.  But  I  might  Have  some  difficulty 
proving  it.    Your  own  testimony  wouldn't  be  par« 


BLUE  OR  GRAY? 


29 


ticularly  impressive.  Besides,  there's  just  enough  of 
truth  in  the  police  theory  to  give  color  to  the  lies. 
It  is  true  Gage  and  I  quarreled,  and  I  believe  I  once 
threatened  to  give  the  old  skinflint  a  beating.  It  was 
a  foolish  wrangle,  involving  nothing  but  a  cross 
made  of  imitation  jade.  I'd  been  wearing  it  at- 
tached to  a  chain  around  my  neck  as  far  back  as  I 
could  remember.  Who  put  it  there  I  don't  know. 
Perhaps  " 

"Your  mother — maybe,"  suggested  Wade,  slant- 
ing a  searching  gaze  at  Vanardy. 

"I  don't  know,  Wade.  You  may  be  right.  I 
remember  neither  father  nor  mother.  All  I  know 
is  that  the  cross  seemed  to  be  the  only  connecting 
link  between  my  present  and  the  past  I  couldn't  re- 
member. I  fought  like  mad  when  the  street  urchins 
and  gangsters  tried  to  take  it  away  from  me,  and 
somehow,  through  thick  and  thin,  I  managed  to 
cling  to  it.  Then,  one  day  about  six  years  ago,  I 
lost  it.  Probably  the  chain  parted.  Anyhow,  in 
some  mysterious  manner  the  cross  fell  into  Gage's 
possession.  I  went  to  Gage  and  demanded  it.  He 
must  have  seen  how  anxious  I  was  to  recover  it,  for 
he  put  a  stiff  price  on  it.  I  was  willing  to  pay — 
would  have  paid  almost  anything — but  each  time  I 
began  to  count  out  the  money  Gage  doubled  his 
price.  So  it  went  on  for  years,  and  1  admit  I  some- 
times felt  like  strangling  the  old  miser.  But  I  never 
threatened  to  kill  him  and  I  never  wrote  the  letter 
mentioned  in  the  papers." 

"Somebody's  been  doing  some  tall  lying,"  declared 
Wade  irately.  "If  I  wasn't  so  fat  I'd  make  the  fel- 
low that  wrote  this  article  eat  his  own  words.  But 
you  should  worry,  boss.  They  can't  get  away  with 
it." 

"I  am  not  so  sure,  Wade.    Seems  to  me  they've 


80 


THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


marde  out  a  fairly  complete  case  against  the  Gray 
Phantom.  The  motive  is  substantial  .enough.  There 
are  enough  mysterious  circumstances  to  suggest  that 
only  the  Phantom  could  have  committed  the  crime. 
The  fact  that  the  murderer  stole  a  cheap  trinket  and 
left  fifty  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  real  diamonds 
behind  him  is  rather  impressive.  And  you  mustn't 
forget  that  a  little  evidence  against  the  Gray  Phan- 
tom will  go  a  long  way  with  a  jury." 

Wade,  a  picture  of  ponderous  wrath,  crumpled 
the  newspaper  in  his  huge  fist.  The  fretful  look  in 
the  small  round  eyes  signified  that  his  mind  was 
grappling  with  a  problem. 

"The  letter  Gage  got  the  Hay  before  the  murder 
must  have  been  forged,"  he  ventured  at  last. 

"Of  course;  but  it  may  have  been  done  skillfully 
enough  to  deceive  all  but  the  keenest  eye.  Hand- 
writing experts  have  been  known  to  disagree  in  mat- 
ters of  that  kind." 

The  fat  man  reflected  heavily.  "Why  didn't  Gage 
beat  it  for  the  tall  woods  when  he  got  the  letter?" 

"Because  the  tall  woods  are  full  of  ambushes. 
Likely  as  not  the  letter  gave  him  a  jolt  at  first. 
Then,  upon  giving  it  a  sober  second  thought,  he 
cooled  down.  His  principal  consideration  was  that 
the  Gray  Phantom  had  never  been  known  to  commit 
a  murder,  and  that  consequently  the  letter  was  either 
a  joke  or  a  bluff." 

"But  he  told  the  cop  it  was  the  Gray  Phantom 
that  stabbed  him." 

"Naturally.  A  wound  in  the  chest  isn't  conducive 
to  clear  thinking.  We  may  assume  that  the  mur- 
derer approached  his  victim  by  stealth  and  that  Gage 
never  saw  the  man  who  struck  him  down.  Under 
the  circumstances  it  was  natural  enough  for  him  to 


BLUE  OR  GRAY? 


31 


suppose  that,  after  all,  the  Gray  Phantom  had 
carried  out  his  threat.   What  else  was  he  to  think?" 

An  ominous  rumble  sounded  in  Wade's  expansive 
chest.   You've  been  framed,  boss." 

Vanardy  nodded.  "And  it  doesn't  require  a  great 
deal  of  brilliance  to  figure  out  who  engineered  the 
frame-up.  The  Duke  has  the  reputation  of  being  a 
good  hater." 

The  fat  man  seemed  startled.  "But  the  Duke's 
in  stir,"  he  argued.    "You  sent  him  there  yourself." 

"So  I  did."  A  pleased  smile  lighted  Vanardy's 
features.  "But  two  or  three  members  of  his  gang 
were  not  present  at  the  round-up,  and  I  have  re- 
ceived tips  to  the  effect  that  they  have  been  organ- 
izing a  new  crowd.  I  suppose  the  Duke  has  been 
communicating  with  them  through  underground 
channels  and  instructing  them  in  regard  to  this 
frame-up.  The  Duke  has  sworn  to  get  me,  and 
undoubtedly  this  is  his  method  of  accomplishing  his 
aim.  He  chose  the  mode  of  revenge  which  he 
thought  would  hurt  me  most." 

"If  I  wasn't  a  fat  man  I  would — "  began  Wade. 

"Save  your  threats.  The  Duke  is  a  crafty  rascal, 
just  as  clever  as  he's  vindictive.  That  kind  of  a  man 
makes  a  bad  enemy.  The  only  way  to  queer  his 
game  is  to  track  down  the  man  who  did  the  crime. 
That's  why  I  am  going  to  New  York  in  the  morn- 
ing. The  police  will  never  find  the  culprit,  for  they 
are  wasting  their  time  and  energies  looking  for  the 
Gray  Phantom.    Therefore  it's  up  to  me." 

A  scowl  deepened  in  Wade's  rubicund  face.  "The 
world  must  be  coming  to  an  end  when  the  Gray  Phan- 
tom turns  detective.  It's  the  maddest,  craziest  thing 
you  ever  did  yet,  boss." 

"It  will  be  quite  an  adventure."  Vanardy's  eyes 
twinkled. 


32        THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


"It's  too  risky,  boss.  Why,  every  dick  and 
harness  bull  and  amateur  sleuth  on  the  American 
continent  is  on  the  lookout  for  you." 

"Very  likely." 

"The  police  have  enough  on  you  to  send  you  to 
the  jug  for  a  million  years,  even  without  the  Syl- 
vanus  Gage  job.  And  you  can  just  bet  the  Duke's 
gang  will  have  their  eyes  peeled,  watching  their 
chance  to  lead  you  into  a  trap." 

"I  suppose  so." 

The  fat  man  sighed.  He  knew  from  long  experi- 
ence that  his  chief,  once  his  mind  was  made  up,  was 
impervious  to  pleas  and  arguments. 

"Why  don't  you  just  sit  tight?"  was  his  final  at- 
tempt. "I  don't  see  what  you're  worrying  about. 
They'll  never  find  you  here.  Nobody  knows  where 
to  look  for  you.   You're  safe." 

"Sure  of  that?"  Vanardy  smiled  queerly. 
"There's  one  person  who  knows  where  to  find  me." 

A  look  of  startled  comprehension  came  into 
Wade's  face.  "You  mean  the  little  queen  who  was  so 
heart-broken  because  the  Duke  had  stolen  a  lot  of 
old  Assyrian  junk  from  her  dad?" 

"I  mean  Miss  Helen  Hardwick,"  declared  Van- 
ardy stiffly.  "I  was  fortunate  in  being  able  to  re- 
cover the  collection  from  the  Duke  and  restore  it  to 
Mr.  Hardwick." 

"She  was  sure  easy  on  the  eyes!"  rhapsodized 
Wade,  unrebuked.  "But  you  let  her  slip  away  from 
you,  after  you'd  stirred  up  most  of  the  earth  to  dry 
her  tears.  I  never  got  you  on  that  deal  boss.  Why, 
if  I  hadn't  been  a  fat  man — "  He  sighed  and  rolled 
wistful  eyes  at  the  ceiling. 

Vanardy  scowled,  then  laughed. 

"Chuck  the  sentiment,  you  old  clod-hopping  hippo. 
As  far  as  I  know,  Miss  Hardwick  is  the  only  living 


BLUE  OR  GRAY? 


33 


person,  outside  our  own  circle,  who  is  aware  of  my3 
whereabouts." 

"Will  she  give  you  away?" 

"It  depends,"  murmured  Vanardy.  "If  she  be* 
lieves  me  guilty  of  murder  she  may  consider  it  her 
'duty  to  inform  the  police,  and  she  would  be  abso- 
lutely right  in  doing  so.  But  that's  neither  here  nor 
there.  I'm  starting  for  New  York  in  a  few  hours 
to  track  down  the  murderer  of  Sylvanus  Gage." 

Admiration  clashed  with  anxiety  in  Wade's  face. 
"I  get  you,  boss.  You  want  to  keep  the  Gray  Phan- 
tom's record  clean.  You  don't  want  any  bloodstains* 
on  his  name.  You  don't  want  the  world  to  think  that 
you've  committed  a  murder." 

An  odd  smile  played  about  the  Phantom's  lips. 
"Wrong,  Wade.  It  goes  against  the  grain  to  have 
a  foul  murder  linked  to  one's  name,  but  it  isn't  that. 
I'm  not  lying  awake  nights  worrying  about  the 
world's  opinion.    The  only  thing  that  troubles  me 

is  "    He  broke  off,  and  his  eyes  sought  the  spot 

where  Helen  Hardwick  had  stood. 

"You  needn't  say  it,  boss."  Wade's  voice  was  a 
trifle  thick  as  he  struggled  out  of  the  chair  and 
gripped  the  other's  hand.  "If  I  wasn't  a  fat  man  I'd 
tag  right  along,  but  I  guess  I'd  only  be  in  the  way. 
Good  luck — and  give  my  regards  to  the  little  wren." 

With  slow,  trundling  strides  he  left  the  room.  A 
moment  later  the  door  had  closed  behind  him,  and 
the  Gray  Phantom  was  alone.  Once  more,  as  he 
paced  the  floor,  his  eyes  were  soft  and  luminous. 
Suddenly  he  paused  and  bent  a  reverential  look  on 
the  rug  at  his  feet,  as  if  he  were  standing  in  a  hal- 
lowed spot. 

"Blue  or  gray?"  he  mumbled. 


CHAPTER  IV 


MR.  ADAIR,  OF  BOSTON 

"T^OLAND  ADAIR,  Boston,  Massachusetts." 
It  was  thus  the  Gray  Phantom  inscribed  the 
register  at  Hotel  Pyramidion,  while  an  af- 
fable clerk  beamed  approval  on  his  athletic  and  well- 
groomed  figure. 

"What  do  you  require,  Mr.  Adair?" 

"Parlor,  bedroom,  and  bath,  with  southern  ex- 
posure, preferably  above  the  sixth  floor." 

The  clerk,  intuitively  sensing  that  the  new  arrival 
was  one  accustomed  to  having  his  wishes  complied 
with,  glanced  at  his  card  index.  "We  have  exactly 
what  you  want,  Mr.  Adair." 

"Good!  I  wish  breakfast  and  the  morning  news- 
papers sent  to  my  apartment  at  once." 

"It  shall  be  done,  Mr.  Adair."  The  clerk  bowed 
debonairly,  little  suspecting  that  the  new  guest,  who 
so  unmistakably  presented  all  the  earmarks  of  a  cul- 
tured and  leisurely  gentleman,  was  at  this  moment 
the  most  "wanted"  man  on  the  North  American 
continent.  The  guest  himself  grinned  in  his  short 
black  beard  while  an  elevator  carried  him  to  the 
ninth  floor,  and  an  acute  observer  would  have  gained 
the  impression  that  he  was  bent  upon  an  adventure 
hugely  to  his  liking. 

He  ate  his  breakfast  slowly  and  with  keen  relish, 
meanwhile  glancing  over  the  newspapers,  which  were 
still  featuring  the  East  Houston  Street  murder  as 

34 


MR.  ADAIR,  OF  BOSTON 


35 


the  chief  sensation.  Nothing  had  as  yet  been  'dis- 
covered which  threw  the  faintest  light  on  the  pe- 
culiar manner  in  which  the  slayer  had  left  the  scene 
of  his  crime,  and  it  was  regarded  as  doubtful 
wrhether  this  mysterious  phase  of  the  case  would  be 
cleared  up  until  after  the  Gray  Phantom's  arrest. 
It  had  been  ascertained  that  the  notorious  criminal 
was  not  aboard  any  of  the  vessels  that  had  sailed 
for  foreign  ports  since  the  murder,  so  it  was  thought 
probable  that  the  fugitive  was  still  in  the  country, 
and  it  was  confidently  declared  by  police  officials  that 
the  drag-net  would  gather  him  in  before  long. 

The  accounts  in  the  various  papers  were  substan- 
tially similar,  but  again  the  Phantom  detected  a 
faintly  dissenting  note  in  the  Sphere's  article.  It  was 
so  slight  as  to  be  scarcely  discernible,  but  to  the  Phan- 
tom it  signified  a  lurking  doubt  in  the  writer's  mind, 
and  a  suggestion  that  the  Sphere's  reporter  sensed  a 
weak  link  in  the  chain  of  evidence. 

"I'll  have  a  talk  with  the  fellow,"  he  decided.  >  "I 
might  ask  him  to  take  dinner  with  me  this  evening. 
He  may  prove  interesting." 

He  finished  his  coffee  and  lighted  a  long,  thin 
cigar,  then  passed  to  the  window  and  watched  the 
procession  below.  After  his  long  and  monotonous 
seclusion  at  Sea-Glimpse  the  life  of  the  city  acted  as 
a  gentle  electric  stimulant  on  his  nerves.  He  glowed 
and  tingled  with  sensations  that  had  lain  dormant 
'during  long  months  of  tedium,  and  the  strongest 
and  raciest  of  these  was  a  feeling  of  ever  present 
danger. 

The  Gray  Phantom  did  not  deceive  himself.  His 
present  adventure  was  by  far  the  most  hazardous  of 
his  career.  On  the  one  hand  he  was  threatened  by 
the  nimble-witted  man  hunters  of  the  police  depart- 
ment, and  on  the  other  by  the  henchmen  of  the  Duke. 


36       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


His  only  hope  of  safety  lay  in  his  subtler  intelligence, 
which  had  seldom  failed  him  in  moments  of  danger, 
and  the  temporary  protection  afforded  by  his  beard. 

Luckily,  the  only  photograph  of  him  in  existence, 
the  one  the  newspapers  had  displayed  on  their  front 
pages  the  morning  after  the  murder,  showed  him 
smooth-shaven.  The  beard,  giving  him  a  maturer 
and  somewhat  more  professional  appearance,  af- 
forded a  thin  and  yet  fairly  satisfactory  disguise,  but 
it  would  be  of  scant  use  if  by  the  slightest  misstep  or 
careless  move  he  should  attract  suspicion  to  himself. 
In  such  an  event,  certain  records  filed  away  in  the 
archives  of  the  police  would  quickly  establish  his 
identity  as  the  Gray  Phantom.  Nevertheless,  he 
was  pleased  that  the  descriptions  carried  by  the  news- 
papers had  made  no  mention  of  a  beard. 

There  was  a  measure  of  safety,  too,  in  the  sheer 
audacity  with  which  he  was  proceeding.  The  man 
hunters  might  look  everywhere  else,  but  they  would 
scarcely  expect  to  find  their  quarry  living  sumptu- 
ously at  a  first-class  hotel.  His  free  and  easy  mode 
of  conduct,  unmarked  by  the  slightest  effort  at  con- 
cealment, afforded  a  protection  which  he  could  not 
have  found  in  the  shabbiest  hovel  and  under  the 
most  elaborate  disguise. 

Yet,  despite  all  the  safeguards  his  brain  could 
invent,  the  situation  was  perilous  enough  to  give  the 
Gray  Phantom  all  the  excitement  his  nature  craved. 
His  pulses  throbbed,  and  there  was  a  keen  sparkle 
in  his  eyes  as  he  left  the  hotel  and  went  out  on  the 
streets.  The  very  air  seemed  charged  with  a  qual- 
ity that  held  him  in  a  state  of  piquant  suspense.  The 
policemen  appeared  more  alert  than  usual,  and  now 
and  then  snatches  of  conversation  reached  his  ears 
from  little  groups  at  street  corners  and  in  doorways 
who  were  avidly  discussing  the  Gage  murder  and  the 


MR.  ADAIR,  OF  BOSTON  37 


chances  of  the  Gray  Phantom  being  caught.  At  each 
subway  entrance  and  elevated  stairway  loitered  a 
seemingly  slothful  and  impassive  character  whom 
his  trained  eye  easily  identified  as  a  detective. 

Chuckling  softly  in  his  beard,  the  Phantom  walked 
on.  No  one  seemed  to  suspect  that  the  striking  and 
faultlessly  garbed  figure  that  sauntered  down  the 
streets  with  such  a  carefree  and  easy  stride,  looking 
for  all  the  world  like  a  leisurely  gentleman  out  for 
his  morning  constitutional,  might  be  the  object  of  one 
of  the  most  thorough  and  far-reaching  man  hunts 
:ever  undertaken  by  the  police.  Occasionally  he 
paused  to  inspect  a  window  display,  incidentally 
listening  to  a  discussion  in  which  his  name  was  fre- 
quently mentioned.  The  East  Houston  Street  mur- 
der, which  under  ordinary  circumstances  would  have 
attracted  but  passing  notice,  had  become  a  tremen- 
dous sensation  because  of  the  Gray  Phantom's  sup- 
posed connection  with  it. 

Gradually  he  veered  off  the  crowded  thorough- 
fares and  entered  into  a  maze  of  crooked,  narrow, 
and  squalid  streets  where  housewives  and  children 
with  dirt-streaked  faces  viewed  his  imposing  figure 
with  frank  curiosity.  After  a  glance  at  a  corner 
sign  he  turned  east,  quickening  his  pace  a  little  and 
scanning  the  numbers  over  the  doorways  as  he  pro- 
ceeded. One  of  the  buildings,  a  murky  brick  front 
with  a  funeral  wreath  hanging  on  the  door  and  a 
tobacconist's  sign  lettered  across  the  ground-floor 
window,  he  regarded  with  more  than  casual  interest. 

"Sylvanus  Gage,  Dealer  in  Pipes,  Tobacco,  and 
Cigars,"  he  read  in  passing;  then,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation,  he  pursued  his  eastward  course,  a  thought- 
ful pucker  between  his  eyes.  He  was  trying  to  out- 
line a  course  of  procedure,  a  matter  to  which 
hitherto  he  had  given  scant  attention,  for  the  Phan- 


38       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


torn  was  the  veriest  tyro  in  the  science  of  criminal 
investigation.  It  occurred  to  him  that  one  of  his 
first  steps  should  be  an  inspection  of  the  scene  of  the 
murder. 

A  few  blocks  farther  east  he  turned  into  a  once 
famous  restaurant  and  ordered  luncheon.  He  dal- 
lied over  the  dishes,  smoked  a  cigar  while  he  drank 
his  coffee,  and  it  was  after  three  o'clock  when  he 
left  the  place  and  headed  in  the  direction  of  the 
tobacco  store.  This  time  he  paused  in  front  of  the 
establishment,  looked  through  the  window,  and  find- 
ing the  interior  deserted,  resolutely  rang  the  bell. 
Some  time  passed  before  the  side  door  was  opened 
by  a  flat-chested  woman  with  sharp  features  and 
unkempt  gray  hair. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  demanded  sulkily,  re- 
garding the  caller  with  oddly  piercing  eyes.  "Can't 
you  see  the  store's  closed?" 

The  Phantom  lifted  his  hat  and  smiled  urbanely. 
"Sorry  to  intrude,"  he  murmured.  "You  are  Mrs. 
Trippe,  I  believe?" 

"Well,  suppose  I  am?" 

"The  late  Mr.  Gage's  housekeeper?" 

"What's  that  to  you?" 

"I  am  Mr.  Adair,  of  Boston,"  explained  the 
Phantom,  unruffled  by  her  churlish  demeanor.  He 
and  the  woman  had  met  once  or  twice  during  his 
stormy  interviews  with  Gage,  but  he  felt  sure  she  did 
not  recognize  him.  "You  may  have  heard  of  me  as 
an  amateur  investigator  of  crime,"  he  went  on  easily. 
"I  have  established  a  modest  reputation  in  that  line. 
This  morning  I  happened  to  read  an  account  of  Mr. 
Gage's  tragic  death,  and  some  of  the  circumstances 
impressed  me  as  interesting.  Could  I  trouble  you 
to  show  me  the  room  in  which  the  crime  was  com- 
mitted?" 


MR.  ADAIR,  OF  BOSTON  39 


His  hand  was  in  the  act  of  extracting  a  bank  note 
'from  his  pocket,  but  he  checked  it  in  time,  a  sixth 
sense  warning  him  that  Mrs.  Trippe  might  resent 
an  attempt  to  grease  her  palm. 

"I  don't  see  what  you  want  to  pester  me  for," 
she  muttered  sullenly,  fixing  him  with  a  look  of  ob- 
vious suspicion.  "The  police  have  almost  worried 
the  life  out  of  me  with  their  fool  questions  and  carry- 
ings-on. The  case  is  settled  and  there's  nothing 
more  to  investigate." 

"Sure  of  that,  Mrs.  Trippe?"  He  had  detected 
a  faint  hesitancy  in  her  speech  and  manner,  and  he 
was  quick  to  take  advantage  of  it.  Incidentally  he 
noticed  that  she  had  aged  a  great  deal  since  he  last 
saw  her,  and  he  doubted  whether  he  should  have 
recognized  her  if  they  had  met  by  chance.  "What 
about  the  murder's  manner  of  escape?"  he  added. 
*'I  understand  that  hasn't  been  explained  yet." 

"Well,  he  escaped,  didn't  he?  I  don't  see  that  it 
makes  any  difference  how  he  did  it.  The  Gray  Phan- 
tom always  did  things  his  own  way.  But,"  after 
a  few  moments'  wavering,  Myou  can  come  in  and 
look  around." 

Her  abrupt  acquiescence  surprised  him,  and  he 
guessed  it  was  not  wholly  due  to  a  desire  to  be 
obliging.  He  wondered,  as  he  followed  her  through 
the  store,  whether  her  decision  to  admit  him  was  not 
prompted  by  a  wish  to  see  what  deductions  he  would 
make  after  inspecting  the  scene  of  the  crime. 

She  opened  the  inner  door,  remarking  that  the 
damage  wrought  by  Officer  Pinto  had  been  repaired 
a  few  hours  after  the  murder  and  that  the  police 
department's  seal  had  been  removed  only  a  short 
while  ago.  The  Phantom  passed  into  the  narrow 
chamber,  only  slightly  altered  in  appearance  sine ; 
the  time  of  his  last  visit.   The  realization  that  he  was 


40       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


viewing  the  scene  of  a  crime  supposed  to  have  been 
perpetrated  by  himself  appealed  strongly  to  his  dra- 
matic instinct,  and  the  thought  that  at  this  moment 
the  police  were  searching  for  him  with  a  fine-toothed 
comb  lent  a  touch  of  humor  to  the  situation. 

The  woman  stepped  to  the  small  window  in  the 
rear  and  raised  the  shade,  then  stationed  herself  at 
the  door,  peering  at  him  out  of  wary,  narrow-lidded 
eyes,  as  if  intent  on  his  slightest  move.  The  Phan- 
tom glanced  at  the  rickety  desk  at  which  Gage  had 
sat  while  haggling  over  petty  sums  and  figuring  per- 
centages to  the  fraction  of  a  cent. 

"I  see  one  of  the  drawers  has  been  forced  open," 
he  remarked. 

"Lieutenant  Culligore  did  that,"  explained  the 
woman.  "That  was  the  drawer  where  Mr.  Gage 
kept  most  of  his  valuables." 

"Including  the  Maltese  cross,"  the  Phantom 
smilingly  put  in. 

Mrs.  Trippe  nodded.  "There's  a  spring  some- 
where that  opens  and  shuts  it,  but  none  of  us  could 
find  it,  and  so  Lieutenant  Culligore  had  to  break 
the  drawer  open." 

"Yet  the  cross  was  gone,"  observed  the  Phantom, 
"and  the  drawer  was  intact  wThen  Lieutenant  Culli- 
gore found  it.  That  would  seem  to  indicate  that  the 
murderer  knew  how  to  operate  the  spring." 

"Well,  hasn't  the  Phantom  proved  that  he  knows 
just  about  all  there  is  to  know?" 

"I  am  sure  the  Phantom  would  feel  highly  com- 
plimented if  he  could  hear  you  say  that."  He 
smiled  discreetly,  realizing  that  here  was  another 
item  of  proof,  for  he  was  willing  to  wager  that, 
though  he  had  never  seen  Gage  work  the  spring,  he 
could  have  opened  the  drawer  without  laying  violent 
hands  upon  it.    He  turned  to  the  window,  carefully 


MR  ADAIR,  OF  BOSTON  41 


examined  the  catch,  then  raised  the  lower  half  and 
endeavored  to  thrust  his  shoulders  through  the  open- 
ing. The  attempt  satisfied  him  that  even  a  smaller 
man  than  himself  would  have  found  it  impossible  to 
squeeze  through. 

That  left  only  the  door  as  a  means  of  egress  and 
ingress,  and  the  door  had  been  bolted  on  the  inside 
when  Officer  Pinto  arrived,  which  circumstance 
seemed  to  render  it  flatly  impossible  for  the  mur- 
derer to  have  escaped  that  way.  He  tried  the  lock 
and  examined  the  stout  bolt,  then  stepped  through 
to  the  other  side,  closing  the  door  behind  him.  A 
wrinkle  of  perplexity  appeared  above  his  eyes.  Even 
the  Phantom's  nimble  wits  could  not  devise  a  way 
of  passing  through  the  door  and  leaving  it  bolted  on 
the  inside.  The  feat  did  not  seem  feasible,  and  yet 
the  murderer  must  have  accomplished  it.  His  face 
wore  a  frown  as  he  reentered  the  little  chamber. 

"Can't  figger  it  out,  eh?"  The  housekeeper 
seemed  to  have  read  his  mind.  "Well,  you  needn't 
try.  The  police  did,  and  they  had  to  give  it  up  as 
a  bad  job.  The  Phantom  has  a  cute  little  way  with 
him,  doing  things  so  they  can't  be  explained." 

"And  yet,"  facing  her  squarely,  "you  don't  think 
the  Phantom  committed  the  murder?" 

A  scarcely  perceptible  shiver  ran  through  her 
shrunken  figure.  "What  else  can  I  think?"  she 
parried. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  The  impression 
haunted  him  that  she  was  not  so  sure  of  the  Phan- 
tom's guilt  as  she  appeared.  He  ran  his  eyes  over 
the  floor,  the  walls,  and  the  murky  ceiling. 

"And  you  needn't  try  to  find  any  hidden  openings, 
either,"  she  told  him,  again  reading  his  unspoken 
thoughts.  "A  bunch  of  headquarters  detectives 
spent  half  a  day  tapping  the  walls  and  the  ceiling 


42       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


and  ripping  up  boards  in  the  floor.  The  Phan- 
tom -" 

The  jangle  of  the  bell  at  the  outer  door  inter- 
rupted her,  and  she  looked  scowlingly  toward  the 
front  of  the  store.  "I  guess  that's  Officer  Pinto," 
she  muttered.  "He's  on  night  duty,  but  he's  been 
prowling  around  here  most  of  the  time  since  the 
murder,  asking  silly  questions  when  he  ought  to  be 
in  bed.'7 

A  hard,  wary  glitter  appeared  in  the  Phantom's 
eyes  as  she  left  the  room.  In  an  instant  he  had 
scented  danger. 


CHAPTER  V 

DANGER 

COOLLY,  though  every  nerve  and  muscle  in  his 
body  were  on  the  alert,  the  Phantom  took  a 
case  from  his  pocket  and  lighted  a  cigarette. 
He  stood  face  to  face  with  a  peril  of  a  tangible  and 
definite  kind.  The  protecting  beard  was  dependable 
only  so  long  as  he  did  not  attract  the  attention  of 
the  police  and  invite  a  closer  scrutiny.  It  would  not 
for  long  deceive  an  officer  whose  training  had  made 
him  habitually  suspicious  of  appearances  and  who 
had  been  drilled  in  the  art  of  seeing  through  dis- 
guises. 

Voices  came  from  the  outer  room,  Mrs.  Trippe's 
surly  tones  clashing  with  the  gruff  accents  of  Officer 
Pinto.  The  Phantom  felt  a  tingle  of  suspense.  It 
was  the  kind  of  situation  he  would  have  thoroughly 
enjoyed  but  for  the  fact  that  in  this  instance  he  could 
not  jeopardize  his  liberty  without  also  endangering 
his  purpose. 

Footsteps  approached,  and  presently  a  stocky 
figure,  with  the  housekeeper  hovering  behind,  stood 
framed  in  the  doorway.  The  Phantom,  smiling  se- 
renely, felt  instant  relief  the  moment  he  glanced  at 
the  heavy  and  somewhat  reddish  features,  with  the 
unimpressive  jaw  and  the  stolid  look  in  the  eyes. 
Pinto  might  be  a  faithful  plodder  and  a  dangerous 
adversary  in  a  physical  encounter,  but  it  was  plain 
that  he  possessed  only  ordinary  intelligence. 

43 


44        THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


"Well,  who' re  you?"  bluntly  demanded  the  of- 
ficer. 

It  was  the  housekeeper  who  answered.  uHe  says 
he  is  Mr.   What  did  you  say  your  name  was?" 

"Mr.  Adair,  of  Boston,"  replied  the  Phantom 
with  an  air  of  superb  tranquillity,  adding  the  explan- 
ation he  had  already  invented  for  Mrs.  Trippe's 
benefit.    "Hope  I'm  not  intruding,"  he  concluded. 

Pinto  stepped  inside,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  Phan- 
tom's face  in  a  hard  stare.  Then,  by  slow  degrees, 
the  churlish  expression  left  his  features  and  a  slightly 
contemptuous  grin  took  its  place. 

"You're  welcome,"  he  declared.  "Go  as  far  as 
you  like.  I  s'pose  you're  trying  to  dope  out  how 
the  Phantom  got  out  of  the  room.  Well,  believe 
me,  you'll  have  to  do  some  tall  thinking." 

The  Phantom  chuckled  affably.  Evidently  Pinto 
had  classified  him  as  one  of  the  harmless  cranks 
who  flock  in  the  wake  of  the  police  whenever  a  mys- 
terious crime  has  taken  place. 

"I  was  just  discussing  the  problem  with  Mrs. 
Trippe,"  he  announced  easily.  "It's  a  fascinating 
riddle.  I  infer  it  has  gripped  you,  too,  since  you 
come  here  in  civilian  clothes  while  not  on  duty." 

"Well,  I've  been  kidding  myself  along,  thinking 
maybe  I  would  find  the  solution."  Pinto's  face  bore 
a  sheepish  look.  "There's  got  to  be  a  solution 
somewhere,  you  know,  and  " 

"And  it  would  be  a  feather  in  your  cap  if  you 
were  the  one  who  found  it  first,"  put  in  the  Phantom 
genially.  "Perhaps  it  would  mean  promotion,  too 
— who  knows?  But  has  it  occurred  to  you  that  the 
murderer's  exit  is  no  more  mysterious  than  his  en- 
trance? If  he  accomplished  a  miracle  getting  out, 
he  also  accomplished  a  miracle  getting  in." 

"The  Phantom's  strong  for  the  miracle  stuff,  all 


DANGER 


45 


right.  But  it's  possible  Gage  himself  let  the  mur- 
derer in.  Maybe  he  expected  somebody  to  call. 
Anyhow,  we  know  the  villain  got  in  somehow.  What 
I'd  like  to  know  is  how  he  got  out." 

The  Phantom's  eyes  had  been  on  the  floor,  near 
the  point  where,  according  to  the  newspaper  articles 
he  had  read,  Gage's  body  must  have  been  found. 
Of  a  sudden  he  looked  up,  and  the  gaze  he  surprised 
in  Pinto's  slyly  peering  eyes  sent  a  tingle  of  appre- 
hension through  his  body.  He  wondered  whether 
the  patrolman  was  as  obtuse  as  he  seemed. 

"I  understand,"  he  said  without  a  tremor  in  his 
voice,  "that  you  found  the  room  dark  upon  break- 
ing in.  Couldn't  the  murderer  have  slipped  out 
while  you  were  looking  for  the  light  switch?" 

"Huh !"  The  contemptuous  snort  came  from 
Mrs.  Trippe,  who,  with  arms  crossed  over  her  chest, 
stood  in  the  rear  of  the  room.  "How  could  he,  I'd 
like  to  know,  with  me  standing  right  outside  the 
door  and  a  crowd  of  rubbernecks  at  the  main  en- 
trance?" 

The  Phantom  seemed  to  ponder.  The  theory  he 
had  just  suggested  did  not  seem  at  all  plausible,  and 
his  only  purpose  in  mentioning  it  had  been  to  turn 
Pinto's  thoughts  in  a  new  direction. 

"I'd  swear  the  rascal  wasn't  in  the  room  when  I 
broke  in,"  declared  the  patrolman  with  emphasis. 

"And  he  couldn't  have  got  out  before,"  remarked 
the  Phantom,  with  a  grin.  At  the  same  moment  he 
felt  Mrs.  Trippe's  eyes  on  his  face.  She  was  gazing 
at  him  as  if  his  last  remark  had  made  a  profound 
impression  upon  her.  He  sensed  a  new  and  baffling 
quality  in  the  situation,  something  that  just  eluded 
his  mental  grasp,  and  he  began  to  wonder  whether 
the  housekeeper  did  not  know  or  suspect  something 
which  she  had  not  yet  told. 


46       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


"The  Phantom's  a  'devil,"  observed  Pinto,  again 
slanting  a  queer  glance  at  the  other  man.  "Nobody 
of  flesh  and  bone  could  pull  off  a  stunt  like  this. 
Maybe  some  day  he'll  tell  us  how  he  did  it.  He'll 
be  roped  in  before  long.  Say,"  with  a  forced  laugh, 
"wouldn't  it  be  funny  if  he  should  get  caught  right 
here,  in  this  room?  They  say  a  murderer  always 
comes  back  to  the  scene  of  his  crime." 

All  the  Phantom's  self-control  was  required  to 
repress  a  start.  Pinto's  remark,  though  uttered  in 
bantering  tones,  was  entirely  too  pointed  to  have 
been  casual,  and  the  gleam  in  his  eyes  testified  that 
his  suspicions  were  aroused. 

"I  think  the  Phantom's  talents  have  been  grossly 
overestimated.  When  he  is  caught  we  shall  prob- 
ably find  that  he  is  quite  an  ordinary  mortaL  Don't 
you  think  so,  Mrs.  Trippe?" 

The  woman  started,  then  mumbled  something 
unintelligible  under  her  breath. 

"Well,  maybe,"  said  Pinto.  "I've  got  a  feeling 
in  my  elbow  that  says  he'll  be  caught  before  night, 
and  then  we'll  see.  He  may  be  an  ordinary  mortal, 
but  I'll  be  mighty  interested  to  know  how  he  got 
out  of  this  room.  Got  any  ideas  on  the  subject, 
Mr.  Adair?" 

The  Phantom's  frown  masked  the  swift  working 
of  his  mind.  "Yes,  but  you  will  laugh  when  I  tell 
you  what  they  are.  My  frank  opinion  is  that  the 
Phantom  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  this 
murder." 

Mrs.  Trippe  stared  at  the  Phantom  as  if  expecting 
an  astounding  revelation  to  fall  from  his  lips. 

Patrolman  Pinto,  too,  seemed  taken  aback.  A 
little  of  the  color  fled  from  his  face,  and  for  an 
instant  his  eyes  held  an  uneasy  gleam.  In  a  moment, 
however,  he  had  steadied  himself,  and  a  raucous 


DANGER 


47 


chuckle  voiced  his  opinion  of  the  Phantom's  last 
statement. 

"Say,  you  amateur  clicks  make  me  laugh.  The 
Phantom  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  "eh?  Well,  if 
he  didn't  commit  this  murder,  maybe  you'll  tell  us 
who  did." 

The  Phantom,  quiveringly  alert,  strolled  across 
the  floor  and  back  again.  There  was  a  bland  smile 
on  his  lips  and  the  amused  twinkle  in  his  eyes  con- 
cealed the  tension  under  which  his  mind  was  labor- 
ing. 

"That's  asking  a  lot  of  an  amateur  detective,  isn't 
it?"  he  suavely  inquired.  "Maybe  it  will  help  you, 
however,  to  know  how  the  situation  looks  to  a  lay- 
man. You  say  you  are  willing  to  swear  that  the 
murderer  was  not  in  the  room  when  you  broke  in. 
It  is  almost  equally  certain,  viewing  the  matter  in 
the  natural  order  of  things,  that  he  could  not  have 
left  the  room  between  the  commission  of  the  crime 
and  your  forcible  entrance.    Therefore  " 

He  broke  off,  feeling  a  violent  rush  of  blood  to  the 
head.  He  had  been  talking  against  time,  hoping  to 
find  a  way  of  diverting  Pinto's  suspicions  from  him- 
self. Suddenly  it  struck  him  that  his.  rambling  dis- 
course had  led  him  straight  to  the  solution  of  the 
mystery.  The  revelation  flashed  through  his  mind 
like  a  swift,  blinding  glare.  To  hide  his  agitation  he 
lighted  a  cigarette.  Through  the  spinning  rings  of 
smoke  he  saw  the  housekeeper's  ashen  face,  mouth 
gaping  and  eyes  staring  with  fierce  intensity. 

"Well?"  prompted  Pinto.  His  voice  was  a  trifle 
shaky. 

The  Phantom  was  himself  again.  "Well,  as  I 
was  about  to  say,  if  the  murderer  was  not  in  the  room 
when  you  broke  in,  then  the  circumstances  point 


48       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


straight  to  you,  Mr.  Pinto,  as  the  murderer  o£ 
Sylvanus  Gage." 

For  a  time  the  room  was  utterly  still.  The  police- 
man seemed  torn  between  astonishment  and  a 
nervous  fear.  The  housekeeper  held  her  breath,  her 
features  twisted  into  a  smile  that  rendered  her  ex- 
pression ghastly. 

"I  knew  it!"  she  cried.    "I  knew  it  all  the  time!" 

"You  must  be  crazy,"  muttered  Pinto,  at  last  find- 
ing his  voice. 

"Not  at  all.  But  for  the  fact  that  you  are  an 
officer  in  good  standing,  you  would  have  been  sus- 
pected immediately.  In  the  light  of  all  the  circum- 
stances, it  stands  to  reason  that  the  man  who  broke 
through  the  door  was  the  man  who  murdered  Gage. 
No  one  else  could  have  done  it.  Mrs.  Trippe,  do 
you  remember  how  long  Pinto  was  alone  in  the  room 
after  forcing  his  way  in?" 

The  housekeeper  seemed  to  search  her  memory. 
"It  took  him  several  moments  to  find  the  electric- 
light  switch,"  she  mumbled  haltingly.  "After  that — 
well,  he  was  in  there  for  some  time  before  he  came 
out.  Maybe  two  minutes,  maybe  five — I  can't  be 
sure." 

"At  any  rate,  long  enough  to  drive  a  knife  into 
Gage's  chest."  There  was  an  exultant  throb  in  the 
Phantom's  tones,  the  eagerness  of  the  hunter  who 
is  tracking  down  his  quarry.  "Gage,  we  may  assume, 
was  awakened  by  the  noise  when  the  door  crashed  in, 
and  sprang  from  his  bed.  You  probably  grappled 
in  the  dark.    Then  " 

Pinto  interrupted  with  a  harsh,  strident  laugh. 
"Some  cock-and-bull  story  you're  handing  us!  If 
I  killed  Gage,  then  Mrs.  Trippe  here  must  have 
been  in  on  the  job.  It  was  she  who  called  me  and 
told  me  to  force  the  door." 


DANGER 


49 


The  Phantom  waved  his  hand  airily.  "Because 
she  had  heard  a  mysterious  noise.  That  noise  may 
have  been  prearranged  to  give  you  a  chance  to  knife 
Gage.  I  don't  pretend  to  understand  all  the  minor 
details  yet,  but  the  essentials  are  clear  as  day.  You 
must  have  committed  the  murder,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  nobody  else  could  have  done  it." 

"Yeh?"  There  was  a  vicious  sneer  in  Pinto's 
face.  "Maybe  you'll  tell  me,  then,  why  Gage  thought 
the  Phantom  was  the  one  who  knifed  him." 

"Because  of  the  forged  letter  he  had  received  the 
day  before.  Besides,  Pinto,  wTe  don't  know  that  Gage 
thought  anything  of  the  kind.  We  have  nothing  but 
your  word  for  it.  You  were  the  only  witness  to  the 
declaration  you  say  Gage  made.  A  man  who  will 
commit  a  cowardly  murder  is  also  capable  of  telling 
a  lie." 

Great  bluish  veins  stood  out  on  Pinto's  forehead. 
"You're  doing  fine  for  an  amateur  dick,"  he  jeered. 
"All  you've  got  to  do  now  is  to  figger  out  a  motive, 
and  the  case  will  be  complete." 

"Motive?  Ah,  yes!  The  Duke  has  a  habit  of 
recruiting  his  men  in  queer  places.  Once  he  had  an 
assistant  district  attorney  on  his  staff;  at  another  time 
an  associate  professor  of  philosophy  with  a  penchant 
for  forbidden  things.  Why  shouldn't  he  have  a  hard- 
working patrolman?" 

Pinto's  figure  squirmed  beneath  his  gaze. 

"Such  a  man  would  prove  useful  to  the  Duke, 
especially  if  he  wanted  to  frame  an  enemy,"  pursued 
the  Phantom.  "Nobody  suspects  a  policeman.  A 
man  in  uniform  is  beyond  reproach.  Even  if  the 
circumstances  of  a  crime  point  straight  to  him  as 
the  perpetrator,  it  is  always  easier  to  suspect  some- 
body else,  particularly  someone  who  has  a  criminal 
record.    I  guess  you  banked  on  that,  Pinto." 


50       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


His  tones  bespoke  a  free  and  easy  confidence,  but 
he  felt  none  of  it.  He  believed  that  the  murderer 
of  Syivanus  Gage  stood  before  him,  but  his  only 
reason  for  thinking  so  was  that,  so  far  as  appearances 
went,  no  one  else  could  have  committed  the  crime. 
He  was  poignantly  aware  that  his  theory  would  be 
laughed  at  and  derided,  and  that  he  himself  would 
be  subjected  to  the  hollow  farce  of  a  trial  which  must 
inevitably  result  in  his  conviction.  Once  in  the 
clutches  of  the  police,  his  chances  of  clearing  him- 
self would  be  extremely  slender.  "Well,  Pinto,  what 
about  it?"  His  tones  were  clear  and  faintly  taunt- 
ing, giving  no  hint  of  the  swift  play  of  his  wits. 
"Did  you  take  the  precaution  of  arranging  an  alibi  ?" 

"No,  I  didn't."  The  policeman  spoke  defiantly. 
For  an  instant  he  fumbled  about  his  pockets,  as  if 
searching  for  something.  Evidently  the  object  he 
wanted  was  not  to  be  found  about  his  civilian  garb. 
xil  didn't  have  to  fix  up  an  alibi.  Say,  Mr. 
Adair  " 

He  paused  for  a  moment  and  came  a  step  closer 
to  the  Phantom. 

"Say,"  he  went  on,  "while  you're  telling  us  so 
much,  maybe  you'll  tell  us  how  long  the  Gray  Phan- 
tom has  been  wearing  a  beard." 

Momentarily  startled  by  the  verbal  thrust,  the 
Phantom  was  unprepared  for  the  physical  attack  that 
instantly  followed.  He  felt  the  sudden  impact  of 
the  policeman's  ponderous  body,  precipitating  him 
against  the  farther  wall  of  the  chamber.  In  a 
moment,  with  unexpected  agility,  the  officer  had 
seized  Mrs.  Trippe  by  the  arm  and  hurried  her  from 
the  room. 

Then  a  'door  slammed  and  a  key  turned  gratingly 
in  the  lock.  The  Gray  Phantom  was  alone,  a 
prisoner. 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE  WAY  OUT 

DUSK  was  falling,  and  the  little  room  was  al- 
most dark.  The  sudden  attack,  all  the  more 
surprising  because  of  Pinto's  previous  air  of 
stolidity,  had  left  the  Phantom  a  trifle  dazed,  but 
in  a  twinkling  he  realized  the  full  seriousness  of  his 
dilemma.  The  door  had  no  sooner  slammed  than 
he  was  on  his  feet,  regaining  his  breath  and  flexing 
his  muscles  for  action. 

With  a  spring  agile  as  a  panther's  he  threw  him- 
self against  the  door.  Once  it  had  succumbed  to 
the  superior  weight  of  Patrolman  Pinto's  body,  but 
the  Phantom's  leaner  and  nimbler  figure  was  no 
match  for  its  solid  resistance.  After  thrice  hurling 
himself  against  the  obstruction,  he  saw  that  he  was 
only  wasting  time  and  strength. 

Hurriedly  he  switched  on  the  light.  From  his 
pocket  he  took  a  box  containing  an  assortment  of 
small  tools  which  on  several  occasions  had  stood  him 
in  good  stead.  In  vain  he  tried  to  manipulate  the 
lock,  finding  that  it  was  too  solidly  imbedded  in  the 
wood.  Next  he  tried  the  hinges,  but  the  flaps  were 
fastened  on  the  other  side  of  the  door  and  there- 
fore inaccessible.  He  cudgeled  his  wits,  but  to  no 
avail;  evidently  the  door  was  an  impassable  barrier. 
It  seemed  by  far  the  most  substantial  part  of  the 
room,  suggesting  that  Gage  might  have  had  it  spe- 
cially constructed  as  a  protection  against  burglars. 

51 


52       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


He  sprang  to  the  window,  then  recalled  that  He 
had  already  ascertained  that  it  was  too  narrow  to 
permit  him  to  crawl  through.  Another  precaution 
of  the  wily  Sylvanus  Gage,  he  grimly  reflected.  His 
eyes,  quick  and  crafty,  darted  over  floor,  ceiling,  and 
walls,  but  nowhere  could  he  see  a  sign  of  a  movable 
panel  or  a  hidden  passage,  and  he  remembered  Mrs. 
Trippe's  statement  that  headquarters  detectives  had 
spent  half  a  day  searching  for  a  secret  exit.  Though 
he  worked  his  wits  at  furious  speed,  the  situation 
baffled  his  ingenuity. 

The  Phantom  perceived  he  was  trapped.  The 
amazing  luck  that  had  attended  him  in  the  past  had 
made  him  reckless  and  indiscreet,  and  now  it  seemed 
to  have  deserted  him  like  a  fickle  charmer.  He  sup- 
posed that  Pinto,  too  shrewd  to  attempt  to  deal 
single-handed  with  such  a  slippery  and  dangerous 
adversary  as  the  Gray  Phantom,  was  already  in  com- 
munication with  headquarters,  summoning  reinforce- 
ments. In  a  few  minutes  he  would  be  hemmed  in 
on  all  sides  and  pounced  upon  by  overwhelming  num- 
bers of  policemen,  and  in  a  little  while  the  newspapers 
would  shriek  the  sensation  that  at  last  the  Gray 
Phantom  had  been  captured. 

It  surprised  him  that  he  could  view  the  end  of  his 
career  with  philosophical  calm,  unaffected  by  vain 
regrets.  He  had  always  suspected  that  some  day  art 
overbold  play  on  his  part  would  result  in  his  undo- 
ing, and  he  had  trained  himself  to  look  upon  his 
ultimate  defeat  with  the  indifference  of  a  cynic  and 
fatalist,  but  he  had  never  guessed  that  the  crisis 
would  come  like  this.  He  smiled  faintly  as  it  dawned 
on  him  that  the  disaster  which  now  stared  him  in 
the  face  was  the  direct  result  of  his  determination  to 
vindicate  himself  in  the  eyes  of  a  woman.    He  had 


THE  WAY  OUT 


53 


played  for  high  stakes  in  the  past,  but  Helen  Hard- 
wick's  faith  in  him  was  the  highest  of  them  all. 

His  smile  faded  as  quickly  as  it  had  come.  There 
was  a  sting  in  the  realization  that  his  boldest  and 
biggest  game  was  foredoomed  to  failure.  Only  a 
few  more  minutes  of  liberty  remained,  and  after  that 
all  chance  of  exculpating  himself  would  be  gone. 
Officer  Pinto,  having  become  famous  of  a  sudden  as 
the  Gray  Phantom's  captor,  would  now,  more  than 
ever  before,  be  beyond  suspicion,  and  he  could  be 
depended  upon  to  make  the  most  of  his  advantage. 
The  Phantom,  whose  hands  had  never  been  sullied 
by  contact  with  blood,  would  be  an  object  of  horror 
and  loathing  as  the  perpetrator  of  a  vile  and  sordid 
murder.  Helen  Hardwick,  like  all  the  rest,  would 
shudder  at  mention  of  his  name. 

The  dismal  thoughts  went  like  flashes  through  his 
mind.  Only  a  few  minutes  had  passed  since  the  door 
slammed.  The  thought  of  Helen  Hardwick  caused 
a  sudden  stiffening  of  his  figure  and  imbued  him  with 
a  fierce  desire  for  freedom.  He  refused  to  believe 
that  his  star  had  set  and  that  this  was  the  end.  Many 
a  time  he  had  wriggled  out  of  corners  seemingly  as 
tight  and  unescapable  as  the  present  one,  chuckling 
at  the  discomfiture  of  the  police  and  the  bedevilment 
of  his  foes.  Why  could  he  not  achieve  another  of 
the  astounding  feats  that  had  made  his  name 
famous? 

He  spurred  his  wits  to  furious  effort,  repeatedly 
telling  himself  that  somewhere  there  must  be  a  way 
out.  It  was  hard  to  believe  that  a  man  like  Sylvanus 
Gage,  living  in  constant  danger  of  a  surprise  visit 
by  the  police,  had  not  provided  himself  with  an 
emergency  exit.  Despite  the  failure  of  the  detectives 
to  find  it,  there  must  be  a  concealed  door  or  secret 


54        THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


passage  somewhere,  though  without  doubt  it  was 
hidden  in  a  way  worthy  of  Gage's  foxlike  cunning. 

He  ran  to  the  door  and  shot  the  bolt.  The  police 
would  be  forced  to  break  their  way  in,  and  this  would 
give  him  a  few  moments'  respite.  Again,  as  several 
times  before  in  the  last  few  minutes,  his  eyes  strayed 
to  the  window.  Though  he  knew  it  was  far  too 
narrow  to  afford  a  means  of  escape,  it  kept  attract- 
ing his  gaze  and  tantalizing  his  imagination.  Decid- 
ing to  make  a  second  attempt,  he  hastened  across  the 
floor,  pushed  up  the  lower  sash,  and  edged  his 
shoulder  into  the  opening.  Writhe  and  wriggle  as 
he  might,  he  could  not  squeeze  through.  Even  a 
man  of  Gage's  scrawny  build  would  have  become 
wedged  in  the  frame  had  he  attempted  it. 

Outside  the  house  a  gong  clanged,  signaling  the 
arrival  of  the  police  patrol.  From  the  front  came 
sharp  commands  and  excited  voices.  Already,  the 
Phantom  guessed,  a  cordon  was  being  thrown  around 
the  block,  ensnaring  him  like  a  fish  in  a  net.  Precious 
moments  passed,  and  still  he  was  unable  to  take  his 
eyes  from  the  window.  A  vague  and  unaccountable 
instinct  told  him  that  his  only  hope  of  safety  lay 
in  that  direction. 

He  raised  the  shade  a  little  and  looked  out  upon: 
a  court  disfigured  by  ramshackle  sheds  and  heaps  of 
refuse.  Several  temporary  hiding  places  awaited  him 
out  there,  if  he  could  only  get  through  the  window. 
Even  an  extra  inch  or  two  added  to  its  width  would 
enable  him  to  wriggle  out  of  the  trap.   But  how  

The  answer  came  to  him  with  sudden,  blinding 
force.  Yet  it  was  simple  and  obvious  enough;  in 
fact,  the  only  reason  he  had  not  thought  of  it  before 
was  that  his  mind  had  been  searching  for  something 
more  intricate  and  remote.  It  had  not  occurred  to 
him  that  the  extra  inch  or  two  that  he  needed  could 


THE  WAY  OUT 


55 


be  provided  by  the  simple  expedient  of  dislodging 
the  window  frame. 

Already  his  fingers  were  tearing  and  tugging  at 
the  woodwork.  He  noticed  that  the  casements  were 
thick,  so  that  the  removal  of  the  frame  would  give 
him  considerable  additional  space,  yet  he  had  been 
at  work  only  a  few  moments  when  he  discovered 
that  his  plan  was  far  more  difficult  of  execution  than 
he  had  expected.  The  frame,  at  first  glance,  ill- 
fitting  and  insecurely  fastened,  resisted  all  his  efforts. 
His  nails  were  torn  and  there  were  bleeding  scratches 
on  his  fingers.  He  looked  about  him  for  something 
that  he  could  use  as  a  lever. 

Someone  was  trying  the  lock,  then  came  a  loud 
pounding  on  the  door. 

"Open!"  commanded  a  voice. 

The  Phantom,  failing  to  find  any  implement  that 
would  serve  his  purpose,  inserted  his  fingers  beneath 
the  sill  and  tugged  with  all  his  strength. 

"Come  and  get  me!"  was  the  taunt  he  flung  back 
over  his  shoulder.  Then  he  pulled  again,  but  the 
sill  did  not  yield.  He  straightened  his  body  and 
attacked  the  perpendicular  frame  to  the  right,  but 
again  he  encountered  nothing  but  solid  resistance. 

"The  game's  up,  Phantom,"  said  the  voice  out- 
side the  door.  "Might  as  well  give  in.  If  you  don't 
we'll  bust  the  door." 

The  Phantom  worked  with  frantic  strength.  His 
knuckles  were  bruised,  his  muscles  ached,  and  sweat 
poured  from  his  forehead. 

"I'll  drill  a  hole  through  the  first  man  who  enters 
this  room,"  he  cried  loudly,  hoping  that  the  threat 
would  cause  the  men  outside  to  hesitate  for  a  few 
moments  longer  before  battering  down  the  door. 
Then,  placing  his  feet  on  the  sill,  he  centered  his 
efforts  on  the  horizontal  bar  at  the  top. 


56        THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


A  quick  glance  through  the  window  revealed  a 
broad-shouldered  man  in  uniform  standing  with  his 
back  to  a  shed.  Evidently  the  cordon  was  tighten- 
ing. Even  if  he  succeeded  in  getting  through  the 
window,  he  would  have  to  fight  his  way  through  a 
human  barrier.  The  outlook  was  almost  hopeless, 
but  he  persisted  with  the  tenacity  that  comes  of  de- 
spair. He  sprang  from  the  sill,  turned  the  electric 
light  switch,  plunging  the  room  into  darkness  and 
hiding  his  movements  from  the  eyes  of  the  man  out- 
side, then  leaped  back  to  his  former  position  and 
tugged  frenziedly  at  the  horizontal  piece. 

Of  a  sudden  his  hand  slipped  and  a  metallic  pro- 
tuberance scratched  his  wrist.  With  habitual  atten- 
tion to  detail,  he  wound  his  handkerchief  around  the 
injured  surface,  stopping  the  flow  of  blood.  If  by  a 
miracle  he  should  succeed  in  getting  out,  he  did  not 
care  to  leave  behind  any  clews  to  his  movements. 
Another  sharp  glance  through  the  window  satisfied 
him  that  the  man  at  the  shed  was  not  looking  in  his 
'direction.  Then  he  ran  his  fingers  along  the  horizon- 
tal frame,  found  the  object  that  had  wounded  him, 
and  discovered  that  it  was  a  nail. 

The  hubbub  outside  the  door  had  ceased  momen- 
tarily. Suddenly  there  came  a  loud  crash,  as  if  a 
heavy  body  had  dashed  against  the  door.  The  Phan- 
tom, a  suspicion  awakening  amid  the  jumble  of  his 
racing  thoughts,  fingered  the  nail,  twisting  it  hither 
and  thither.  It  occurred  to  him  in  a  twinkling  that 
it  was  an  odd  place  for  a  nail,  since  it  could  serve 
no  apparent  purpose.  In  a  calmer  moment  he  would 
have  thought  nothing  of  it,  but  his  mind  was  keyed 
to  that  tremendous  pitch  where  minor  details  are 
magnified. 

Another  crash  sounded,  accompanied  by  an 
ominous  squeaking  of  cracking  timber.    He  bent  the 


THE  WAY  OUT 


57 


nail  to  one  side,  noticing  that  its  resistance  to  pressure 
was  elastic,  differing  from  the  inert  feel  of  objects 
lirmly  imbedded  in  solid  wood.  An  inspiration  came 
to  him  out  of  the  stress  of  the  moment.  He  twisted 
the  nail  in  various  directions,  at  the  same  time  tug- 
ging energetically  at  a  corner  of  the  frame. 

Once  more  a  smashing  force  was  hurled  against 
the  door,  followed  by  a  portentous,  splintering  crack. 
Quivering  with  suspense,  his  mind  fixed  with  des- 
perate intentness  on  a  dim,  tantalizing  hope,  the 
Phantom  continued  to  bend  and  twist  the  nail  at  all 
possible  angles.  He  knew  that  at  any  moment  the 
door  was  likely  to  collapse,  and  then  

He  uttered  a  hoarse  cry  of  elation.  Of  a  sudden, 
as  he  bent  the  nail  in  a  new  direction,  it  gave  a 
quick  rebound,  and  in  the  same  instant  the  frame 
yielded  to  his  steady  pull,  as  if  swinging  on  a  hinge, 
revealing  an  opening  in  the  side  of  the  uncommonly 
massive  wall.  For  a  moment  his  discovery  dazed 
him,  then  a  terrific  crash  at  the  door  caused  him  to 
pull  himself  together,  and  in  a  moment  he  had 
squeezed  his  figure  into  the  aperture. 

He  drew  a  long  breath  and  wiped  the  blinding, 
smarting  perspiration  from  his  face.  Thanks  to  an' 
accidental  scratch  on  the  wrist,  he  had  discovered 
Sylvanus  Gage's  emergency  exit.  And  none  too  soon, 
for  already,  with  a  splitting  crash,  the  door  had 
collapsed  under  the  repeated  onslaughts  of  the  mert 
outside,  and  several  shadowy  forms  were  bursting 
headlong  into  the  room. 

The  Phantom,  wedged  in  the  narrow  opening, 
seized  the  side  of  the  revolving  frame  and  drew  it 
to.  A  little  click  signified  that  a  spring  had  caught 
it  and  was  holding  it  in  place.  Excited  voices,  muffled 
by  the  intervening  obstruction,  reached  his  ears.  He 
smiled  as  he  pictured  the  consternation  of  the  detec- 


58       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


tives  upon  discovering  that  once  more  the  Gray 
Phantom  had  lived  up  to  his  name  and  achieved  an- 
other of  the  amazing  escapes  that  had  made  him 
feared  and  secredy  admired  by  the  keenest  sleuths  in 
the  country. 

He  had  no  fear  that  the  police  would  follow  him, 
for  his  discovery  of  the  secret  exit  had  been  partly 
accidental  and  partly  due  to  the  accelerated  nimble- 
ness  of  mind  that  comes  to  one  laboring  under 
tremendous  pressure.  To  the  police  the  nail  on  the 
top  of  the  window  frame  would  be  nothing  but  a 
nail.  It  is  the  hunted,  not  the  hunter,  whose  mind 
clutches  at  straws,  and  they  would  never  guess  that 
the  nail  was  a  lever  in  disguise.  The  Phantom,  as 
he  contemplated  the  ingenious  arrangement,  found 
his  respect  for  the  dead  man's  inventiveness  rising 
several  notches. 

From  the  other  side  of  the  wall  came  loud  curses, 
mingling  with  dazed  exclamations,  baffled  shouts  and 
expressions  of  incredulity.  With  a  laugh  at  the  dis- 
comfiture of  his  pursuers,  who  but  a  few  moments 
ago  had  thought  him  inextricably  trapped,  the  Phan- 
tom moved  a  little  farther  into  the  opening.  It 
appeared  to  be  slanting  slowly  into  the  ground,  and 
it  was  so  narrow  that  each  wriggling  and  writhing 
movement  bruised  some  portion  of  his  body.  Inch 
by  inch  he  worked  his  way  downward,  wondering 
whither  the  passage  might  lead.  Now  the  voices  in 
the  room  were  almost  beyond  earshot,  and  he  could 
hear  nothing  but  a  low,  confused  din. 

Presently  he  felt  solid  ground  at  his  feet,  and  at 
this  point  the  passage  turned  in  a  horizontal  direc- 
tion. There  was  a  slight  current  of  dank  air  in  the 
tunnel,  suggesting  that  its  opposite  terminus  might 
be  a  cellar  or  other  subterranean  compartment.] 
Limbs  aching,  he  moved  forward,  with  slow  twists 


THE  WAY  OUT 


59 


and  coilings  of  the  body.  He  estimated  that  he  had 
already  covered  half  a  dozen  yards,  and  he  wondered 
how  much  farther  the  passage  might  reach.  One 
thing  puzzled  him  as  he  writhed  onward.  Why  had 
Gage  not  made  use  of  the  secret  exit  on  the  night  of 
the  murder?  Was  it,  perhaps,  because  the  murderer 
had  come  upon  him  so  suddenly  that  he  had  not 
had  time  to  reach  the  hidden  opening? 

He  dismissed  the  question  as  too  speculative.  A 
few  more  twists  and  jerks,  and  he  found  himself  in 
an  open  space  where  he  could  stand  upright  and 
move  about  freely.  For  a  few  moments  he  fumbled 
around  in  the  inky  darkness,  finally  encountering  a 
stairway.  He  ascended  as  quietly  as  he  could,  tak- 
ing pains  that  the  squeakings  of  the  decaying  stairs 
should  not  disturb  the  occupants  above.  Reaching 
the  top,  he  listened  intently  while  his  hand  searched 
for  a  doorknob.  Slowly  and  with  infinite  caution 
he  pushed  the  door  open.  Again  he  stopped  and 
listened.  The  room  was  dark  and  still,  and  he  could 
distinguish  no  objects,  yet  his  alert  mind  sensed  a 
presence,  and  he  felt  a  pair  of  sharp  eyes  gazing  at 
him  through  the  shadows. 

Then,  out  of  the  gloom  and  silence  came  a  voice: 

"Don't  move!" 

The  words  were  a  bit  theatrical,  but  the  voice 
caused  him  to  start  sharply.  A  few  paces  ahead  of 
him  he  saw  a  blurry  shape.  His  hand  darted  to  his 
hip  pocket;  then  he  remembered  that  he  had  left 
his  pistol  in  the  grip  at  his  hotel,  for  when  he  started 
out  he  had  not  expected  that  his  enterprise  would 
so  soon  take  a  critical  turn. 

uHold  up  your  hands,"  commanded  the  voice,  and 
again  an  odd  quiver  shot  through  the  Phantom. 

Nonchalantly  he  found  his  case  and  thrust  a 
cigarette  between  his  lips.    Then  he  struck  a  match, 


60       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 

acIvanceS  a  few  paces,  gazed  sharply  aheaH  as  the 
fluttering  flame  illuminated  the:  scene,  and  came  to  a 
'dead  stop. 

He  was  looking  straight  into  the  muzzle  of  a 
pistol,  and  directly  behind  the  bluishly  gleaming 
barrel  he  saw  the  face  of  Helen  Hardwick. 


CHAPTER  VII 


DOCTOR  BIMBLE'S  LABORATORY 

SHE  was  the  last  person  the  Gray  Phantom  had 
expected  to  see  at  that  moment,  and  this  was 
the  last  place  where  he  would  have  dreamed  of 
finding  her.    He  stared  into  her  face  until  the  flame 
of  the  match  bit  his  fingers. 

"You!"  He  dropped  the  stub  and  trampled  it 
under  his  foot.  She  stood  rigid  in  the  shadows,  and 
the  wan  glint  of  the  pistol  barrel  told  that  she  was 
still  pointing  the  weapon  at  him.  Her  breath  came 
fast,  with  little  soblike  gasps,  as  if  she  were  trying 
to  stifle  a  violent  emotion, 

"How  did  you  get  here?"  she  demanded,  her  voice 
scarcely  above  a  whisper. 

"By  a  tight  squeeze,"  he  said  lightly.  "I  must  be 
a  sight." 

"You  came  through  the — tunnel?" 

"I  did  as  a  matter  of  fact,  though  I  don't  see 
how  you  guessed  it." 

Staring  at  her  through  the  dusk,  the  Phantom  was 
conscious  that  his  statement  had  exerted  a  profound 
effect  upon  her.  She  drew  a  long  breath,  and  her 
figure,  scarcely  distinguishable  in  the  gloom,  seemed 
to  shrink  away  from  him. 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  an  odd  throb  in  her  voice. 
"Then  you  did  it!" 

"Did  what?" 

"Murdered  Sylvanus  Gage." 

61 


02       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


The  Phantom  shook  his  head.  uYou  deduce  I 
am  a  murderer  from  the  fact  that  I  got  here  through 
a  tunnel.  Well,  that  may  be  very  good  feminine 
logic,  but  " 

"It  is  excellent  logic,  my  friend,"  interrupted  a 
voice  somewhere  in  the  darkness;  and  in  the  same 
moment  there  came  a  click,  and  a  bright  electric  light 
flooded  the  scene.  The  Phantom  had  a  brief  glimpse 
of  a  ludicrous  little  man  with  an  oversized  head,  a 
round  protuberance  of  stomach,  and  short,  thin  legs 
;encased  in  tightly  fitting  trousers;  then  he  turned 
to  Helen  Hardwick  and  gazed  intently  into  her  large, 
misty-bright  eyes. 

"Oh,  they're  brown,  I  see,"  he  murmured.  "I 
had  a  notion  they  were  either  blue  or  gray.  Queer 
how  one  forgets." 

The  girl  looked  as  though  utterly  unable  to  under- 
stand his  levity,  for  as  such  she  evidently  construed 
his  remark.  The  thin-legged  man  stepped  away  from 
the  door  through  which  he  had  entered  and 
approached  them  slowly,  giving  the  Phantom  a 
gravely  appraising  look  over  the  rims  of  his  glasses. 
The  Phantom  had  eyes  only  for  Helen  Hardwick. 
He  studied  her  closely,  almost  reverentially,  noticing 
that  her  eyes,  which  upon  his  entrance  had  been 
steady  and  cool,  were  now  strangely  agitated,  radiat- 
ing a  dread  that  seemed  to  dominate  her  entire  being. 
The  hand  that  clutched  the  pistol  trembled  a  trifle, 
and  there  were  signs  of  an  extreme  tension  in  the 
poise  of  the  strong,  slender  figure,  in  the  quivering 
nostrils,  and  in  the  pallor  that  suffused  the  smooth 
oval  of  her  face. 

"Remarkable!"  murmured  the  spectacled  indi- 
vidual, drawing  a  few  steps  closer  to  obtain  a  clearer 
view  of  the  Phantom.  "The  young  lady  and  myself 
are  covering  you  with  our  pistols,  and  yet  you  exhibit 


DOCTOR  BIMBLE'S  LABORATORY  63 


no  fear  whatever.  Most  remarkable!  May  I  feel 
your  pulse,  sir?" 

The  Phantom's  lips  twitched  at  the  corners  as  he 
looked  at  the  speaker.  The  latter's  automatic, 
pointed  at  a  somewhat  indefinite  part  of  the  Phan- 
tom's body,  seemed  ludicrously  large  in  contrast  with 
the  slight  stature  of  the  man  himself. 

"My  name,  sir,"  declared  the  little  man  with  an 
air  of  vast  importance,  "is  Doctor  Tyson  Bimble. 
You  may  have  heard  of  me.  I  have  written  several 
treatises  on  the  subject  of  criminal  anthropology,  and 
my  professional  services  have  occasionally  been  en- 
listed by  the  police.  Not  that  such  work  interests 
me,"  he  added  quickly.  "The  solution  of  crime 
mysteries  and  the  capture  of  criminals  are  the  pas- 
times of  inferior  minds.  As  a  man  of  science,  I  am 
interested  solely  in  the  criminal  himself,  his  mental 
and  physical  characteristics  and  the  congenital  traits 
that  distinguish  him.  Again  I  ask  you  if  I  may  feel 
your  pulse." 

Smiling,  the  Phantom  extended  his  hand.  Ad- 
monishing Miss  Hardwick  to  keep  a  steady  aim, 
Doctor  Bimble  pocketed  his  own  weapon  and  took 
out  his  watch. 

"Perfectly  normal,"  he  declared  when  the  exami- 
nation was  finished.  "At  first  I  thought  that  at  least 
a  part  of  your  superb  coolness  was  simulated.  It  is 
all  the  more  remarkable  in  view  of  the  fact  that  at 
this  very  moment  you  are  surrounded  on  all  sides  by 
the  police.  They  have  thrown  a  cordon  around  the 
block  and  every  house  is  being  systematically 
searched." 

The  Phantom  stiffened.  His  abrupt  and  unex- 
pected meeting  with  Helen  Hardwick  had  momen- 
tarily blunted  his  sense  of  caution,  causing  him  to 
forget  that  he  was  still  in  imminent  danger.  He 


64       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


threw  her  a  quick  glance  noticing  a  look  of  alarm 
in  her  face.  He  made  a  rapid  appraisal  of  the  situa- 
tion. His  flight  through  the  tunnel  could  not  have 
taken  him  more  than  twelve  or  fifteen  yards  from 
the  rear  of  the  Gage  establishment,  and  he  was  al- 
most certain  that  the  passage  had  extended  in  a 
straight  southerly  'direction.  Consequently  the  place 
in  which  he  now  found  himself  must  be  one  of  the 
shed-like  structures  he  had  seen  from  the  window 
of  Gage's  bedroom. 

His  eyes  opened  wide  as  he  looked  around.  What- 
ever the  place  might  look  like  from  the  outside,  the 
interior  certainly  did  not  have  the  appearance  of  a 
shed.  It  was  a  strange  setting,  and  it  seemed  all  the 
stranger  because  he  had  found  Helen  Hardwick  in  it. 
At  one  end  was  a  long  bench  covered  with  bottles, 
glass  jars,  tubes,  and  a  queer-looking  assortment  of 
chemical  apparatus.  The  walls  were  lined  with  rows 
of  tall  cabinets  with  glass  doors,  each  containing  a 
skeleton,  and  above  these  was  a  frieze  of  photo- 
graphs and  X-ray  prints  in  black  frames. 

He  wondered  how  Miss  Hardwick  happened  to 
be  in  such  strange  surroundings.  Her  large,  long- 
lashed  eyes  avoided  him,  and  her  right  hand, 
cramped  about  the  handle  of  the  pistol,  wavered  a 
trifle.  She  had  changed  since  their  last  meeting, 
he  noticed.  She  had  seemed  half  child  and  half 
woman  then,  a  vivacious  young  creature  with  a  mix- 
ture of  reckless  audacity,  demure  wistfulness  and 
adorable  shyness  whose  bewildering  contradictions 
had  enhanced  a  loveliness  that  had  gone  to  the  Phan- 
tom's head  like  foaming  wine.  In  the  course  of  a 
few  months  she  had  acquired  the  subtle  and  indefin- 
able something  that  differentiates  girlhood  from 
womanhood.  Her  face — he  had  liked  to  think  of 
it  as  heart-shaped — Ka9  sobered  a  little,  and  the 


DOCTOR  BIMBLE'S  LABORATORY 


65 


graceful  lines  of  chin  and  throat  seemed  firmer. 
Faintly  penciled  shadows  at  the  corners  of  her  lips 
hinted  that  a  touch  of  somberness  had  crept  into  her 
mood,  but  even  such  a  trifling  detail  as  a  few  wisps 
of  loosened  hair  dangling  sportively  against  her 
cheeks  seemed  to  go  a  long  way  toward  upsetting 
this  effect. 

Doctor  Bimble's  thin  and  rasping  voice  startled 
the  Phantom  out  of  his  reverie. 

"My  laboratory,  sir,"  he  explained  with  a  com- 
prehensive wave  of  the  hand.  "What  you  see  here 
is  probably  the  most  remarkable  collection  of  its  kind 
in  the  world.  Each  of  these  skeletons  represents  a. 
distinct  criminal  type.  Here,  for  instance  are  the 
bones  of  Raschenell,  the  famous  apache.  They  are 
supposed  to  be  buried  in  a  cemetery  in  Paris,  but 
a  certain  French  official  for  whom  I  once  did  a  favor 
was  obliging.  In  my  private  rogues'  gallery  you  see 
photographs  of  some  of  the  most  notorious  criminals 
the  world  has  ever  known,  and  these  X-ray  pictures 
illustrate  various  pathological  conditions  usually 
associated  with  criminal  tendencies.  Quite  remark- 
able, you  will  admit." 

"Quite,"  said  the  Phantom  a  little  absendy,  as  if 
his  mind  were  occupied  with  more  pressing  matters 
than  the  bones  of  notorious  malefactors. 

"You  may  feel  perfectly  at  ease,  my  friend."  The 
little  doctor,  noticing  the  Phantom's  abstraction, 
spoke  soothingly.  "I  think  I  have  already  made  it 
clear  that  the  pursuit  and  capture  of  criminals  don't 
interest  me.  Without  doubt  we  shall  arrive  at  some 
amicable  understanding  that  will  insure  your  safety." 

"Understanding?"  echoed  the  Phantom,  having 
detected  a  slight  but  significant  emphasis  on  the 
word. 

"Yes;  why  not?  You  have  interested  me  for  some 


66       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


time,  Mr. — ahem.    Let  me  see — I  believe  your  real 
name  is  Cuthbert  Vanardy?" 
The  Phantom  nodded. 

"Making  due  allowance  for  the  exaggerations  of 
stupid  newspaper  writers,  I  have  long  recognized  that 
you  are  a  remarkable  individual.  Yes,  remarkable. 
You  do  not  belong  to  any  of  the  types  mentioned 
by  Prichard,  Pinel,  and  Lombroso,  but  you  are  a  type 
of  your  own.  Naturally  you  arouse  my  scientific 
curiosity.  Nothing  would  please  me  more  than  to 
add  you  to  my  collection." 

The  Phantom  glanced  at  the  grisly  contents  of 
the  cabinets.  A  serio-comic  grin  wrinkled  his  face. 
"Aren't  you  a  bit  hasty,  doctor?  I  am  not  dead  yet, 
you  know." 

"True — quite  true.  But  a  man  like  you  leads  a 
precarious  existence.  If  he  doesn't  break  his  neck 
in  some  rash  adventure  the  electric  chair  is  always  a 
menacing  possibility.  The  chances  are  that  I  shall 
outlive  you  by  a  score  of  years.  Promise  that  you 
will  give  the  matter  due  consideration." 

The  Phantom  blinked  his  eyes.  Doctor  Bimble 
seemed  amiable  enough,  yet  the  man  was  scarcely 
human.  His  whole  being  was  wrapped  up  in  his 
science  and  his  entire  world  was  composed  of  anthro- 
pological specimens  and  fine-spun  theories. 

"You  wish  me  to  make  arrangements  to  have  my 
body  turned  over  to  you  after  my  death?" 

"Precisely,  Mr.  Vanardy.  That  is  what  my  friend 
and  neighbor,  Sylvanus  Gage,  did.  An  inferior 
personality,  yet  he  had  his  points  of  interest.  I  am 
obliged  to  you  for  hastening  his  demise." 

A  tremulous  gasp  sounded  in  the  room.  The 
Phantom  turned,  and  his  brow  clouded  as  he  noticed 
the  expression  of  anguish  that  had  crossed  Helen's 
face  at  the  doctor's  words. 


DOCTOR  BIMBLE'S  LABORATORY  67 


"You're  mistaken,  Bimble,"  he  declared  sharply; 
"I  didn't  kill  Gage.  If  I  had  done  so,  I  should 
scarcely  be  here  at  the  present  monient." 

Doctor  Bimble  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "The 
matter  is  of  little  consequence,  my  dear  sir.  Whether 
or  not  you  killed  Gage  is  not  of  the  slightest  interest 
to  me.  However,"  with  a  significant  glance  at 
Vanardy's  mud-streaked  clothing  and  begrimed  fea- 
tures, "I  am  strongly  of  the  opinion  that  you  did. 
The  only  thing  that  perplexes  me  is  that  you  are 
taking  the  trouble  to  deny  it.  Did  I  hear  you  say 
that  you  came  here  through  the  tunnel?" 

"I  did."  As  he  spoke  the  two  words,  the  Phan- 
tom felt  Helen's  eyes  searching  his  face. 

"Enough."  The  anthropologist  made  a  gesture 
expressive  of  finality.  "Your  admission  that  you 
came  through  the  tunnel  is  an  admission  that  you 
killed  Gage.  I  perceive  you  do  not  follow  me.  Well, 
then,  the  circumstances  of  the  crime  prove  conclu- 
sively that  it  was  committed  by  someone  who  was 
aware  of  the  existence  of  the  tunnel.  What  the 
foolish  newspapers  refer  to  as  astounding  and 
miraculous  is  simplicity  itself.  The  murderer  entered 
Gage's  bedchamber  by  way  of  the  underground  pas- 
sage and  made  his  escape  by  the  same  route.  Nothing 
could  be  simpler." 

The  Phantom  laughed  mirthlessly.  The  doctor's 
theory,  though  at  first  glance  shallow  and  far-fetched, 
impressed  him  uncomfortably,  instilling  in  his  mind 
an  idea  that  had  not  occurred  to  him  until  now. 
Helen,  standing  a  few  paces  away,  was  regarding 
him  intently. 

"To-day,  I  infer,  you  returned  to  the  scene  of 
your  crime,"  continued  the  doctor,  speaking  in  the 
dry  tones  of  one  developing  a  thesis.  "Criminals 
often  do,  but  why  you,  a  superior  type,  should  exhibit 


68       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


the  same  failing  is  beyond  me.  Some  time  in  the 
near  future  I  shall  write  a  monograph  on  the  subject, 
with  particular  reference  to  your  individual  case. 
However,  the  fact  remains  that  you  returned  to  the 
scene  of  your  crime.  I  take  it  that  by  some  blunder 
or  careless  move  you  betrayed  your  presence.  At  any 
rate,  you  found  yourself  trapped  in  Gage's  bed- 
chamber. What  more  natural  than  that,  for  the 
second  time  within  a  week,  you  should  use  the  tunnel 
as  a  means  of  escape  ?" 

The  Phantom  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Helen 
Hardwick  seemecl  to  be  searching  his  soul  with  eyes 
that  gave  him  a  distressing  impression  of  doubt,  sus- 
picion, and  reproach. 

"You're  mistaken."  He  was  addressing  the 
'doctor,  but  the  effect  of  his  words  was  intended  for 
the  girl.  "I  went  to  Gage's  house  this  afternoon, 
hoping  to  find  some  clew  to  the  murderer." 

"Ah!"  The  doctor's  chuckle  expresse'd  amuse- 
ment. "You  were  acting  on  the  idea  that  it  takes 
a  crook  to  catch  a  crook,  I  suppose.  Go  on.  Your 
ingenious  explanations  are  'diverting." 

"I  found  myself  cornered,"  continued  the  Phan- 
tom, stifling  his  resentment.  "With  the  house  sur- 
rounded and  the  police  pouncling  on  the  cloor,  I  had 
only  a  few  moments  in  which  to  finH  a  way  out.  I 
used  the  tunnel,  but  I  discovered  the  opening  by 
merest  accident." 

"Impossible — flatly  impossible  !  Yes,  I  see  your 
wrist  is  scratched,  but  that  proves  nothing.  That 
opening,  my  dear  sir,  could  never  have  been  dis- 
covered by  accident." 

"You  seem  to  know  something  about  it  yourself," 
remarked  the  Phantom  pointedly. 

"I  'do,"  aHmitteH  the  anthropologist,  with  a  broad 
grin. 


DOCTOR  BUMBLE'S  LABORATORY  69 


"And  the  tunnel  runs  into  the  cellar  of  your 
house." 

"So  it  does."  The  doctor  seemed  not  at  all  dis- 
turbed by  Vanardy's  sharp  gaze.  "Years  ago,  when 
I  was  looking  for  an  inconspicuous  and  out-of-the- 
way  place  in  which  to  pursue  my  studies  in  quiet,  I 
leased  the  house  to  which  this  laboratory  forms  an 
extension.  I  saw  Gage  now  and  then,  and  the  man 
interested  me.  Even  before  we  became  confidential 
I  had  noticed  phrenological  manifestations  that 
seemed  to  classify  him  as  belonging  to  one  of  the 
types  described  by  Lombroso.  Step  by  step  I  be- 
came familiar  with  his  history  and  mode  of  life.  I 
learned  that  he  was  conducting  an  extensive  traffic 
in  stolen  goods,  and  that  he  had  a  broad  circle  of 
acquaintances  in  the  underworld.  Gage  proved  use- 
ful, introducing  me  to  criminals  whom  I  wished  to 
study  at  close  range,  and,  in  addition  to  that,  the  man 
himself  interested  me.  I  saw  traits  and  peculiarities 
in  him  that  were  strangely  contradictory.  And  so, 
when  one  day  he  confided  to  me  that  he  was  living 
in  constant  fear  of  the  police,  who  were  likely  to  raid 
his  premises  at  any  time  and  confiscate  his  valuables, 
I  made  a  proposition  to  him." 

"You  offered  to  help  on  the  condition  that  he  sign 
his  body  over  to  you  for  dissecting  purposes," 
guessed  the  Phantom. 

"Exactly,  my  friend."  Bimble  rubbed  his  hands 
in  glee.  "I  offered  to  invent  an  avenue  of  escape 
that  would  be  absolutely  safe  and  proof  against  de- 
tection. Gage  accepted,  and  I  set  to  work  fulfilling 
my  part  of  the  bargain.  The  result,  if  I  may  bestow 
compliments  on  myself,  was  a  work  of  genius." 

The  Phantom  gazed  in  frank  astonishment  at  the 
versatile  anthropologist.  "The  police  have  a  nasty 
name  for  that  sort  of  thing,"  he  observed. 


70       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


"The  police  and  I  are  friends.  I  help  them  on 
occasions,  when  the  spirit  moves  me  and  the  case 
interests  me.  And  a  scientific  man,  my  dear  sir, 
cannot  afford  to  have  moral  scruples.  The  ends  of 
science  justify  all  other  things,  even  assisting  a  crim- 
inal to  escape.  Incidentally  I  derived  a  lot  of  en- 
tertainment out  of  the  planning  of  the  tunnel.  In 
the  first  place,  the  window  was  purposely  built  so 
small  that  no  one  would  consider  it  for  a  moment 
as  a  possible  means  of  escape.  Still  less  would  any 
one  think  of  looking  for  an  exit  hidden  behind  the 
frame  of  such  a  window.  You  noticed  the  nail,  of 
course.  A  lot  of  psychology  is  centered  around  that 
nail." 

"So  it's  a  psychological  nail,  eh?"  The  Phantom 
looked  at  the  scratch  on  his  wrist. 

"I  knew,  from  my  observations  of  the  workings 
of  the  human  mind,  that  not  one  person  in  ten  mil- 
lion would  give  a  second  thought  to  that  nail.  Even 
if,  by  remote  chance,  someone  should  touch  it,  he 
would  never  suspect  that  it  was  a  part  of  a  mechan- 
ism. If,  by  a  still  remoter  chance,  he  would  in- 
vestigate more  closely,  he  would  not  know  how  to 
operate  it.  So,  you  see,  there  is  not  one  chance  in  a 
billion  that  a  stranger  would  find  the  tunnel.  Do  you 
blame  me  for  doubting  your  statement  that  you 
found  it  by  accident?" 

The  Phantom  looked  at  Miss  Hardwick.  Doctor 
Bimble's  explanation  seemed  to  have  impressed  her 
strongly.  He  did  not  wonder  at  this,  for  he  knew 
there  was  logic  in  the  anthropologist's  argument. 
Nothing  but  his  firm  belief  that  Gage  had  provided 
himself  with  an  emergency  exit  of  some  sort  had 
prompted  the  Phantom  to  give  the  nail  a  closer 
scrutiny. 

Doctor  Bimble  gave  him  a  mildly  amused  look. 


DOCTOR  BIMBLE'S  LABORATORY  71 


"You  agree  with  me — 'don't  you,  Vanardy?  I  think 
my  logic  holds  together.  Only  a  person  familiar 
with  the  tunnel  could  have  committed  the  murder. 
Conversely,  a  person  betraying  a  knowledge  of  the 
tunnel  is  a  worthy  object  of  suspicion." 

"Haven't  you  forgotten  something?"  The  Phan- 
tom suddenly  called  to  mind  his  own  theory  of  the 
crime.  "One  other  person  could  have  committed  the 
murder  without  a  knowledge  of  the  tunnel." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  the  doctor  wearily.  "You 
are  thinking  of  Officer  Pinto.  The  possibility  that 
he  might  be  the  guilty  one  occurred  to  me  as  soon  as 
I  saw  the  newspaper  account,  but  the  probabilities 
of  the  case  controverted  that  view.  Officer  Pinto  is 
an  honest,  dull-witted,  conscientious  soul — nothing 
else.    That  kind  of  man  doesn't  com  " 

The  jangling  of  a  bell  in  front  of  the  house  inter- 
rupted him.  There  was  a  humorous  twinkle  in  his 
eyes  as  he  looked  at  the  Phantom  over  the  rims  of 
his  spectacles.    Helen  inhaled  sharply. 

"The  police  have  come  to  search  the  house,  I 
think,"  Doctor  Bimble  murmured  languidly.  "My 
man  Jerome — an  estimable  fellow,  by  the  way — is 
already  admitting  them.  In  a  few  moments  they  will 
be  coming  this  way.  Of  course,  if  I  tell  them  that  I 
have  seen  nothing  of  a  fugitive,  they  will  go  away 
without  making  an  extended  search." 

Vanardy  stiffened.  His  head  went  up  and  his  eyes 
narrowed;  then  he  glanced  quizzically  at  the  doctor. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  Bimble  had  stressed  the  word 
if,  as  though  a  condition  were  implied. 

"Well,  Vanardy?"  The  anthropologist's  tone 
was  light  and  playful.  Sounds  of  distant  footfalls 
reached  their  ears.  The  Phantom's  darting  eyes 
rested  for  an  instant  on  one  of  the  skeletons,  and  in 


72       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


a  twinkling  he  understood.  He  laughed  shortly,  for 
the  idea  impressed  him  as  grotesquely  humorous. 

"I  see,"  he  said  quickly.  ''You'll  say  the  necessary 
word  to  the  police  if  I  agree  to  dedicate  my  earthly 
remains  to  your  private  hall  of  fame." 

"You  grasp  my  meaning  exactly.  But  the  time  is 
short  and  I  shaVt  press  you  for  a  definite  promise. 
Only  give  me  your  word  that  you  will  consider  the 
proposition." 

"Very  well;  I'll  consider  it,"  promised  the  Phan- 
tom. "But  I  warn  you  that  I  have  no  burning  am- 
bition to  become  a  skeleton  for  some  time  yet." 

A  pleased  grin  wrinkled  the  doctor's  face.  The 
footfalls,  mingling  with  gruff  voices,  were  coming 
closer,  signifying  that  the  searchers  were  rapidly  ap- 
proaching the  laboratory. 

"This  way,  Vanardy."  The  doctor  beckoned  the 
Phantom  to  follow  as  he  started  toward  the  door. 
Approaching  footsteps  caused  him  to  draw  back.  A 
look  of  bewilderment  came  into  his  face. 

"We  have  wasted  too  much  time,"  he  said  com- 
plainingly;  then,  as  he  looked  about  the  room,  his 
face  brightened.  "But  this  will  do  for  a  hiding 
place.  Better  come  along,  Miss  Hardwick.  It  may 
save  you  embarrassing  questions." 

He  stepped  hurriedly  to  one  side  of  the  room, 
opened  a  'door  and  motioned  them  into  a  narrow 
closet.  A  moment  later  they  heard  a  key  turn  in  the 
lock. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


LOGIC  VERSUS  HEART.  THROBS 

VAGUE  misgiving  assailed  the  Phantom  as 


the  door  closed.   The  hiding  place  chosen  for 


them  by  the  genial  Doctor  Bimble  seemed  not 
quite  adequate  to  the  emergency.  There  had  been 
no  time  for  argument,  however,  and  nothing  for  the 
Phantom  to  do  but  follow  instructions.  The  versa- 
tile anthropologist  knew  best,  he  had  thought,  and 
very  likely  the  police  would  take  Bimble's  word  for 
it  that  nobody  was  concealed  in  the  laboratory. 

The  closet  was  so  dark  that,  but  for  a  faint  fra- 
grance and  the  occasional  scraping  of  a  foot,  he 
might  have  thought  himself  alone.  From  the  other 
side  of  the  door  came  subdued  sounds,  and  he  pic- 
tured the  tubby  little  doctor  protesting  against  the 
intrusion  on  his  sacred  privacy.  Of  Helen  he  could 
see  nothing  but  the  pallid  glint  of  her  face  in  the 
gloom,  but  her  quick,  nervous  breathing  told  him 
that  she  was  keyed  up  to  a  high  tension.  There  was 
a  medley  of  questions  in  his  mind,  but  he  found  it 
hard  to  put  them  into  words. 

"Hel — Miss  Hardwick,"  he  whispered. 


"Logic  is  silly  rot." 

A  moment's  pause.  "I  don't  believe  I  under- 
stand." 

"According  to  the  learned  doctor's  logic,  I  am  the; 
murderer  of  Sylvanus  Gage.    He  made  out  quite  a 

73 


Yes? 


74       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


convincing  case,  and  I  could  see  you  were  impressed. 
Yet,  deep  down  in  your  heart,  you  know  he  was  talk- 
ing piffle.   You  don't  believe  I  killed  Gage." 

She  stood  silent  for  a  time.  He  pressed  closer  to 
the  wall  and  fumbled  for  her  hand.  It  was  cold,  and 
the  pulsations  at  the  wrist  made  him  think  of  a 
frightened,  fluttering  bird. 

"I  wish  I  could  believe  you  didn't,"  she  murmured, 
freeing  her  hand. 

"Thank  you."  Her  candor  had  given  him  a  little 
thrill  of  faint  and  indefinable  hope.  "Would  it  sur- 
prise you  very  much  if  I  told  you  that  my  only 
reason  for  leaving  Sea  Glimpse  was  to  convince  you 
of  my  innocence?" 

"Convince  meV  She  gave  a  low,  incredulous 
laugh.  "Why?" 

"I'm  not  sure  I  can  tell  you  that.  From  a  prac- 
tical point  of  view  it  was  a  foolish  move,  wasn't  it? 
By  the  way,  you  knew  that  the  police  were  hunting 
high  and  low  for  me.  You  alone  knew  where  I  was 
to  be  found,  and  yet  you  didn't  tell.    I  wonder  why." 

She  meditated  for  a  little;  then,  in  a  whisper:  "I 
rdon't  know." 

He  laughed  softly.  "It  seems  neither  one  of  us  is 
very  practical.  We  don't  understand  our  own  mo- 
tives. Can  you  tell  me  what  you  are  doing  in  this 
gallery  of  skeletons?" 

"I  am  not  sure,  but  I  will  try.  The  morning  after 
the  murder  of  Gage,  I  read  the  accounts  in  all  the 
papers.  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  felt.  It  was  as  if  a 
great  illusion  had  been  shattered.  I  remember  how 
I  cried  one  day  when  I  fell  and  broke  my  first  doll. 
My  feelings  after  reading  the  papers  were  something 
like  that,  only  more  poignant." 

"I  understand,"  he  murmured.  "You  had  placed 
the  Gray  Phantom  on  a  pedestal.   When  he  fell  and 


LOGIC  VERSUS  HEART  THROBS  75 


broke  to  bits,  just  like  common  clay,  you  were  dis- 
appointed." 

"Yes,  it  was  something  like  that.  I  had  placed 
your  better  self  on  a  pedestal.  I  didn't  want  to  be- 
lieve it  had  fallen  or  that  it  was  just  common  clay. 
I  read  the  papers  very  carefully;  hoping  to  find  a 
weak  point  in  the  evidence  against  you,  but  it  seemed 
complete  and  conclusive  down  to  the  tiniest  detail. 
One  of  the  articles  puzzled  me  a  little,  though." 

"Oh — the  Sphere's!   Yes,  I  noticed  it,  too." 

"It  read  as  though  the  writer  were  not  quite  sure 
that  you  were  the  guilty  one.  After  thinking  it  over 
for  a  while  I  called  up  the  Sphere  and  asked  for  the 
reporter  who  had  written  the  article.  They  had 
some  little  trouble  finding  him,  and  when  he  finally 
came  to  the  'phone  he  acted  as  if  he  were  not  quite 
sober.  I  tried  to  question  him  about  the  case,  but 
he  gruffly  told  me  he  had  nothing  to  tell  aside  from 
what  he  had  put  into  his  story.  If  I  had  a  personal 
interest  in  the  matter,  he  said,  the  best  thing  I  could 
do  was  go  and  consult  Doctor  Bimble." 

"And  you  adopted  the  suggestion?" 

"I  had  never  heard  of  Doctor  Bimble,  but  the 
reporter  told  me  he  was  the  cleverest  investigator  of 
criminal  cases  in  town.  He  warned  me  that  Doctor 
Bimble  might  refuse  to  help  me,  since  he  accepted 
nothing  but  cases  of  unusual  interest,  but  the  fact  that 
the  murdered  man  was  a  friend  and  neighbor  might 
make  a  difference.  Yesterday  I  called  on  the  doctor, 
but  at  first  he  would  talk  of  nothing  but  his  skeletons. 
The  murder  didn't  seem  to  interest  him  in  the  least. 
He  said  the  Phantom's  guilt  was  clear  and  that  all 
that  remained  was  to  catch  him.  Then,  when  he 
saw  how  earnest  I  was,  he  told  me  about  the  tunnel." 

"The  doctor  is  a  queer  duck,"  murmured  the 
Phantom  musingly.     "The  ordinary  man  wouldn't 


76       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


take  strangers  into  his  confidence  about  such  things. 
The  eccentricity  of  genius,  I  suppose." 

"The  whole  affair  seemed  to  bore  him  immensely. 
He  told  me  the  man  who  killed  Gage  must  have  used 
the  tunnel,  since  he  could  not  have  left  the  room  any 
other  way.  He  thought  it  possible  the  murderer 
was  still  hiding  there,  lying  low  until  the  excitement 
should  die  down,  and  if  I  didn't  have  anything  better 
to  do  I  might  watch  for  him  at  this  end.  As  for 
himself,  he  said  he  wasn't  at  all  concerned  in  the 
apprehension  and  punishment  of  criminals,  but  he 
gave  me  his  revolver  and  told  me  I  might  watch  the 
door  leading  from  the  laboratory,  since  the  mur- 
'derer,  if  he  were  still  in  the  tunnel,  had  to  come  out 
that  way.  I  think  my  interest  in  the  case  amused 
the  doctor.  I  suspected  he  was  chuckling  at  me  most 
of  the  time. 

"I  watched  the  door  till  late  last  night,  all  the  time 
hoping  that,  if  anyone  came  out  of  the  tunnel, 
it  would  not  be  you.  Shortly  before  midnight  I  per- 
suaded the  doctor  to  let  his  man  take  my  place.  You 
see,  if  the  murderer  proved  to  be  anyone  but  you,  I 
wanted  him  caught,  because  then  your  innocence 
would  be  established.  Early  this  morning  I  went 
back  to  my  post.  When  I  heard  steps  on  the  stairs 
my  heart  stood  still  for  a  moment.  As  the  'door 
opened  I  felt  like  shrieking.   And  then  " 

She  broke  off  with  a  gasp.  From  above  came  the 
sounds  of  footsteps  and  doors  slamming,  indicating 
that  the  police  were  searching  the  upper  part  of  the 
house. 

"AnH  when  you  saw  me,"  the  Phantom  put  in, 
"you  immediately  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  I 
was  guilty.  Well,  I  suppose  it  was  good  logic.  What 
can  I  do  or  say  to  convince  you  that  I  didn't  kill 
Gage?" 


LOGIC  VERSUS  HEART  THROBS  77 


"Nothing,"  she  said,  a  hysterical  catch  in  her 
throat.  Of  a  sudden  she  seemed  cold  and  distant, 
as  if  realizing  that  in  telling  her  story  she  had  be- 
trayed too  much  of  her  feelings.  "I  fear  there  is 
nothing  more  to  be  said." 

The  Phantom  drew  a  deep  breath.  "I  don't 
blame  you,"  he  said  gently.  "There  are  several 
black  chapters  in  my  past.  But  some  day  I'll  prove 
to  you  that  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  this  murder.  I 
admit  that  just  now  the  evidence  weighs  heavily 
against  me.  It  is  true  there  was  something  of  a  feud 
between  me  and  Gage  once  upon  a  time  and  " 

"And  the  threatening  letter,"  she  interrupted. 
"Why  did  you  send  it  if  you  didn't  mean  to  kill 
him?" 

"It  was  a  forgery.   I  never  wrote  it." 

"Handwriting  experts  say  you  did." 

"I  know."  He  remembered  having  read  in  the 
newspapers  that  three  experts  had  compared  the 
letter  with  samples  of  his  handwriting  on  file  in  the 
bureau  of  criminal  identification,  and  that  two  of 
them  had  declared  that  the  Phantom  had  written  it. 
"That  only  goes  to  show  that  it  was  an  exceptionally 
clever  forgery,  and  experts  have  been  known  to 
differ  before." 

"But  Gage  told  the  officer  that  it  was  you  who 
stabbed  him."  She  spoke  as  if  determined  to  hear 
his  explanation  of  the  damning  bits  of  evidence  even 
though  every  word  hurt  her. 

"True  enough.  But  Gage  didn't  see  me.  He  had 
the  threatening  letter  in  mind  when  he  said  that." 

"Nothing  but  the  Maltese  cross  was  missing,  and 
you  had  had  a  quarrel  with  Gage  about  that." 

"True,  too."  The  Phantom  chuckled  bitterly. 
"If  I  had  committed  the  murder  I  should  have  taken 
pains  to  carry  away  a  lot  of  other  things  for  a  blind." 


78       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


She  was  silent  for  a  few  moments.  Footsteps 
were  coming  down  the  stairs,  and  the  Phantom  knew 
that  the  searchers  would  soon  be  in  the  laboratory. 
Again  he  found  her  hand,  but  she  quickly  drew  it 
away. 

"You  knew  about  the  tunnel,"  she  reminded  him, 
her  shaky  accents  betraying  the  struggle  going  on 
within  her. 

"I  swear  that  I  found  it  by  accident." 

He  could  not  see  her  face,  but  he  sensed  that  she 
doubted  him  and  that  the  remnant  of  faith  in  her 
heart  was  unable  to  withstand  the  corroding  effect 
of  a  growing  suspicion.  The  footsteps  were  draw- 
ing closer,  and  now  they  could  hear  voices  outside 
the  door.  He  recognized  the  rasping  accents  of 
Doctor  Bimole. 

"I  tell  you,  my  dear  sir,  that  the  closet  contains 
nothing  but  chemicals  which  I  use  in  my  laboratory 
work.  Some  of  them  are  very  valuable.  That's 
why  I  keep  them  under  lock  and  key." 

Tensing  every  muscle  as  if  preparing  for  an  at- 
tack, the  Phantom  stepped  in  front  of  the  girl.  She 
made  no  protest  as  he  took  her  pistol,  which  she 
had  been  holding  all  the  time  and  which  now  hung 
limply  from  her  fingers. 

"I  don't  doubt  your  word,"  answered  a  gruff 
voice  outside,  "but  orders  are  to  search  everywhere 
and  make  a  good  job  of  it.  Hate  to  trouble  you, 
but  it's  got  to  be  done." 

The  doctor,  evidently  sparring  for  time,  insisted 
that  he  had  been  in  his  laboratory  all  day  and  that 
nobody  could  have  slipped  into  the  closet  unnoticed 
by  him;  but  the  other  was  obdurate. 

"Very  well,  then,"  finally  grumbled  the  anthropol- 
ogist, "but  I  shall  make  complaint  to  Inspector 
Wadham.   Jerome,  where  are  my  keys?" 


LOGIC  VERSUS  HEART  THROBS 


79 


Despite  the  suspense  under  which  he  was  laboring, 
the  Phantom  grinned.  He  strongly  suspected  that 
Bimble  was  working  a  ruse  in  order  to  gain  time. 
Yet  he  wondered  what  the  outcome  was  to  be,  for 
unless  the  keys  were  promptly  produced  the  officers 
would  undoubtedly  force  the  door. 

His  next  sensation  was  one  of  astonishment.  A 
curious  calm  appeared  to  have  fallen  over  the  group 
outside,  for  moment  after  moment  passed  without 
a  word  being  spoken.  The  Phantom  wondered  what 
it  could  mean.  It  seemed  as  though  the  speakers 
had  been  suddenly  stricken  dumb.  After  what 
seemed  a  long  period  of  silence,  somebody  uttered 
an  exclamation  of  astonishment,  then  a  laugh 
sounded,  and  next  footsteps  moved  away  from  the 
closet  door.  A  minute  or  so  passed,  then  someone 
fumbled  with  the  lock,  and  presently  the  door  was 
opened  by  Doctor  Bimble.  He  was  smiling  blandly, 
but  the  Phantom  thought  he  detected  an  uneasy 
gleam  behind  the  spectacles. 

"What's  happened?"  he  inquired,  looking  about 
him  dazedly  and  noticing  that  the  girl  and  himself 
were  alone  with  the  doctor. 

The  anthropologist  waved  a  hand  toward  the 
front  of  the  house.  "Listen!" 

From  the  streets  came  loud  and  raucous  shouts, 
and  a  blank  look  crossed  the  Phantom's  face  as  he 
made  out  the  words: 

"Uxtra!  Gray  Phantom  capchured!  All  'bout 
the  big  pinch !  Uxtra  I" 


CHAPTER  IX 


THE  PHANTOM  IS  MYSTIFIED 

TT^OR  a  time  the  little  group  in  the  laboratory  stoocl 
as  if  turned  into  inanimate  shapes,  their  senses 
under  the  spell  of  the  hoarse  shouts  in  the 
street.  The  Phantom  felt  a  curious  churning  in  his 
head.  The  anthropologist  was  still  smiling,  but  the 
smile  was  gradually  growing  thin  and  hard.  Helen 
fixed  the  Phantom  with  a  stony  look. 

"It  appears  a  mistake  of  some  kind  has  been 
made,"  muttered  the  doctor  at  length.  "It  was  a 
fortunate  one  for  you,  my  friends,  for  the  officers 
were  becoming  quite  insistent.  Luckily  the  cries  di- 
verted their  attention  from  the  closet,  and  they  went 
away  apologizing  after  telephoning  headquarters 
and  verifying  the  report." 

The  Phantom,  still  feeling  Helen's  gaze  on  his 
face,  pocketed  the  pistol  he  had  been  holding.  The 
newsboys'  cries  had  given  him  a  jolt  that  left  him  a 
little  dazed  and  caused  his  mind  to  turn  to  trivial 
things.  He  found  himself  admiring  Helen's  simple 
little  hat  and  plain  but  tasteful  dress,  noticing  that 
they  seemed  as  much  a  part  of  her  as  her  hair  and 
her  complexion.  He  saw  that  she  tried  to  be  brave 
despite  a  crushing  disaster  to  her  illusions,  and  some- 
how he  felt  sorry  for  her. 

Doctor  Bimble  turned  on  him  with  a  frown. 

"Sir,"  he  demanded,  "are  you  the  Gray  Phantom 
or  merely  a  clumsy  impostor?" 

80 


THE  PHANTOM  IS  MYSTIFIED  81 


The  question  seemed  so  ludicrous  that  the  Phan- 
tom could  only  chuckle. 

"It  has  long  been  my  desire  to  meet  the  Gray 
Phantom,"  pursued  the  doctor,  still  scowling  darkly. 
"I  should  dislike  to  think  I  have  been  imposed  upon. 
But  that  cant  be,  unless" — with  another  suspicious 
look — "you  are  acting  as  a  foil  for  the  Phantom. 
Well,  we  shall  see  presently,  I  suppose.  In  the  mean- 
time, you  may  consider  yourself  at  home  under  my 
roof." 

Without  knowing  why,  the  Phantom  hesitated 
before  accepting  the  invitation.  To  take  advantage 
of  the  doctor's  hospitality  was  clearly  the  proper 
thing  to  do.  In  a  little  while  the  police  would  learn 
they  had  blundered,  and  then  the  man  hunt  would 
be  resumed  with  redoubled  vigor.  To  venture  forth 
on  the  streets  after  that  would  be  little  short  of 
madness.  The  Phantom,  conquering  his  misgivings 
— which,  after  all,  were  nothing  more  than  a  vague 
doubt  in  regard  to  the  doctor — murmured  his  appre- 
ciation. 

Bimble's  manservant,  a  lanky,  thin-faced  indi- 
vidual with  a  gloomy  expression  and  wary  eye,  en- 
tered with  a  copy  of  the  extras.  The  Phantom  gave 
him  a  quick  and  keenly  searching  glance,  and  again 
he  felt  strangely  bewildered.  The  man  looked  in- 
nocent enough,  and  it  was  nothing  but  an  intangible 
something  in  his  gait  and  his  manner  of  carrying 
himself  that  caused  the  Phantom  to  look  twice. 

Doctor  Bimble  took  the  damp  sheet,  still  redolent 
of  ink,  and  read  aloud  the  triple-leaded  article  under 
the  scare  head.  During  the  perusal  Helen  regarded 
him  with  strange,  expressionless  eyes,  while  now  and 
then  the  servant  shot  the  Phantom  a  stealthy  glance 
which  the  latter  found  hard  to  interpret. 

Evidently  the  extra  had  been  hurriedly  prepared, 


82       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


'for  the  article  contained  only  a  few  pithy  facts.  It 
seemed  that  the  Phantom,  with  an  audacity  and  a 
recklessness  characteristic  of  him,  had  for  some  un- 
accountable purpose  visited  the  East  Houston  Street 
establishment  in  which  the  murder  of  Sylvanus  Gage 
had  been  perpetrated.  Wearing  no  other  disguise 
than  a  black  beard,  which  he  had  evidently  grown 
since  his  last  appearance  in  public,  he  had  ap- 
proached the  housekeeper,  introduced  himself  as 
Mr.  Adair,  of  Boston,  a  criminal  investigator,  and 
requested  to  inspect  the  scene  of  the  murder.  The 
unsuspecting  housekeeper  had  admitted  him,  little 
guessing  that  her  visitor  was  one  of  the  most  cele- 
brated criminals  of  the  age. 

The  Gray  Phantom  had  been  in  the  room  only  a 
few  minutes  when  Officer  Joshua  Pinto  appeared  on 
the  scene.  With  laudable  perspicacity  the  officer 
recognized  the  Phantom  almost  immediately,  despite 
the  disguising  beard,  and  by  clever  maneuvering 
managed  to  lock  him  in  the  room,  standing  guard 
outside  the  door  while  the  housekeeper  telephoned 
headquarters.  In  a  few  moments  an  impenetrable 
cordon  had  been  thrown  around  the  house,  and  the 
capture  of  the  Phantom  seemed  an  absolute  cer- 
tainty. Yet,  when  the  door  was  battered  down, 
the  astonished  officers  saw  that  the  room  was  empty 
and  that  the  notorious  rogue  had  achieved  another 
of  his  miraculous  escapes. 

Apparently,  so  the  article  stated,  the  Phantom  had 
accomplished  the  impossible,  but  then  the  Phantom's 
entire  career  had  been  a  series  of  incredible  accom- 
plishments. How  he  had  managed  to  leave  the  room 
and  elude  the  cordon  of  police  would  probably  re- 
main a  mystery  forever  unless  the  criminal  himself 
should  divulge  the  secret.  His  capture,  which  had 
taken  place  while  the  police  were  making  a  system- 


THE  PHANTOM  IS  MYSTIFIED  83 


atic  search  of  the  houses  in  the  block,  had  been  due 
to  one  of  the  strange  aberrations  which  seize  even 
the  astutest  criminals.  A  brawl  had  occurred  in  a 
"blind  pig"  in  Bleecker  Street,  and  the  commotion 
had  attracted  the  attention  of  a  passing  sergeant. 
After  sending  in  a  hurry  call  for  help  the  sergeant 
had  raided  the  place,  and  among  the  prisoners  taken 
was  one  who  was  almost  instantly  recognized  as  the 
Gray  Phantom.  The  identification  was  rendered  all 
the  easier  by  the  fact  that  he  had  removed  his  beard 
after  making  his  sensational  escape  from  the  East 
Houston  Street  establishment.  The  belief  was  ex- 
pressed that  the  prisoner  would  be  induced  to  make 
a  statement  as  soon  as  he  had  recovered  from  the 
effects  of  the  raw  whiskey  he  had  consumed  in  the 
dive,  presumably  in  celebration  of  his  latest  coup. 

"Rot!"  ejaculated  the  doctor,  throwing  the  paper 
clown  with  a  gesture  of  disgust.  UA  fool  would 
know  that  a  man  of  the  Gray  Phantom's  tempera- 
ment, whatever  other  folly  he  might  commit,  would 
not  get  intoxicated  at  a  critical  moment  like  this. 
This  proves —  But  what's  become  of  Miss  Hard- 
wick?" 

The  Phantom  looked  up  with  a  start.  The  girl 
was  gone.  Evidently  she  had  taken  advantage  of 
the  other's  absorption  in  the  newspaper  article  to  slip 
out  unnoticed.  Jerome,  a  crestfallen  look  on  his 
long  face,  hastily  left  the  laboratory,  returning  in  a 
few  moments  with  the  report  that  Miss  Hard  wick 
was  nowhere  in  sight.  The  Phantom  imagined  that 
there  was  an  expression  of  sharp  reproach  in  the 
doctor's  eyes  as  they  rested  on  the  servant,  but  the 
impression  was  fleeting. 

"The  young  lady  has  probably  gone  home,"  ven- 
tured the  anthropologist.  "She  must  have  been  tired, 
and  in  a  measure  her  task  was  accomplished.  The 


84       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


question  is,  can  you  rely  on  her  not  to  communicate 
what  she  knows  to  the  police?" 

The  Phantom  looked  a  trifle  Houbtful.  He  had 
perceived  that  the  impulses  of  her  heart  had  been 
swamped  by  logic.  It  was  possible  she  had  gone 
away  hating  him,  firmly  convinced  he  was  a  mur- 
derer, and  in  that  event  her  sense  of  duty  might 
easily  overcome  everything  else. 

"Frankly,  I  don't  know,"  he  declared.  "At  any 
rate,  I  am  about  as  safe  here  as  anywhere  for  the 
present.  I  should  like  a  bath,  if  I  may  presume  on 
your  hospitality." 

"By  all  means.  And  as  soon  as  you  have  rested 
a  bit  we  shall  dine.  Dear  me,  it  is  almost  nine 
o'clock!  Jerome!" 

He  instructed  the  servant,  and  the  Phantom  fol- 
lowed the  silent  and  soft-footed  man  to  the  bath- 
room. As  he  splashe'd  about  in  the  tub,  he  tried  to 
forget  the  bitter  ache  which  Helen's  words  had  left 
in  his  heart.  Her  frigid  attitude  and  her  abrupt 
going  away  had  merely  strengthened  his  determina- 
tion to  convince  her  of  his  innocence.  He  saw  that 
he  must  act  quickly  and  take  advantage  of  the  com- 
parative security  which  he  could  enjoy  until  the 
police  discovered  that  they  had  arrested  the  wrong 
man. 

His  mind  was  at  work  on  a  plan  while  he  hurried 
into  his  clothes,  which  Jerome  had  brushed  and 
pressed  while  he  was  in  the  tub.  A  question  that 
troubled  him  greatly  was  how  far  he  could  safely 
take  Bimble  into  his  confidence.  The  sharp-witted 
anthropologist,  with  his  keen  insight  into  human 
nature,  would  prove  a  valuable  ally,  but  the  Phantom 
felt  a  great  deal  of  mystification  in  his  presence. 
There  was  something  about  the  man  which  his  senses 
could  not  quite  grasp.    Likely  as  not,  it  was  only; 


THE  PHANTOM  IS  MYSTIFIED  85 


the  scientific  temperament,  which  gave  him  an  ap- 
pearance of  secretiveness  and  dissimulation,  but  of 
this  the  Phantom  could  not  be  sure. 

The  dinner,  which  he  ate  in  the  doctor's  company, 
was  excellent,  and  Jerome  served  them  in  a  faultless 
manner,  proving  that  the  anthropologist's  devotion 
to  his  science  had  not  blunted  his  taste  for  physical 
comforts.  The  host  discoursed  learnedly  and  bril- 
liantly on  Lucchini's  theory  in  regard  to  the  respon- 
sibility of  the  criminal,  and  it  was  not  until  the  serv- 
ant had  withdrawn  and  they  had  reached  their  coffee 
and  cigars  that  he  mentioned  the  subject  on  the 
Phantom's  mind. 

The  dining  room,  furnished  with  an  approach  to 
elegance  that  one  would  scarcely  have  expected  to 
find  on  such  a  shabby  street,  was  lighted  by  a  heavily 
shaded  electrolier.  The  lights  and  shadows  playing 
across  Bimble's  face  as  he  gesticulated  with  his  head 
gave  him  an  added  touch  of  mystery  and  accentuated 
the  general  air  of  inscrutability  that  hovered  about 
his  person.  He  broached  the  subject  of  Gage's  death 
while  lighting  his  cigar. 

"Come  now,  Vanardy,  let  us  be  confidential.  It 
was  you  who  murdered  Gage.   Why  deny  it?" 

Smiling  faintly,  the  Phantom  shook  his  head. 

Bimble  regarded  him  curiously.  "The  only  thing 
about  the  crime  that  interests  me  is  your  denial.  But 
I  think  I  understand.  In  some  criminals  there  is  art 
aesthetic  sense  which  revolts  against  the  vulgar  and 
sordid.  Having,  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment, 
committed  a  sordid  crime,  your  aesthetic  sense  re- 
asserts itself,  and  you  want  to  forget  the  ugly  affair 
as  quickly  as  possible.    Am  I  right?" 

The  Phantom  laughed.  "You  clothe  the  thing  in 
such  attractive  phrasing  that  I  almost  wish  I  could 


86       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


plead  guilty.  But  I  didn't  kill  Gage,  and  that's  all 
there  is  to  it." 

"You  still  insist  that  Pinto  did?" 

"Until  two  or  three  hours  ago  I  was  firmly  con- 
vinced of  it." 

"Ah!  Now  we  are  getting  down  to  facts.  Until 
two  or  three  hours  ago  you  were  certain  Pinto  was 
the  murderer.  Why?" 

"Because  at  the  time  I  felt  sure  that  no  one  else 
could  have  committed  the  crime.  The  mysterious 
circumstances  could  be  explained  in  no  other  way 
than  on  the  assumption  that  Pinto  was  the  perpe- 
trator." 

"Exactly.  Your  logic  was  not  at  all  bad.  But  I 
infer  that  within  the  last  three  hours  you  have 
changed  your  mind." 

"Not  quite;  I  have  merely  modified  my  opinion.  I 
am  no  longer  positively  certain  that  Pinto  committed 
the  murder." 

"Why?"  A  shrewd  grin  twisted  the  anthropol- 
ogist's lips.  "What  has  caused  you  to  modify  your 
view — the  tunnel?" 

"Yes,  the  tunnel.  The  existence  of  the  tunnel 
makes  it  possible  for  someone  other  than  Pinto  to 
have  committed  the  murder.  It  suggests  another 
hypothesis,  in  the  light  of  which  all  the  circumstances 
are  explainable.  Without  the  tunnel  I  should  be 
morally  certain  of  Pinto's  guilt;  with  it  in  existence  I 
am  no  longer  sure." 

"Bravo,  my  friend!  You  are  doing  very  well  for 
an  amateur  detective.  Your  idea  is  that  the  mur- 
derer entered  Gage's  bedchamber  by  way  of  the 
tunnel  and  took  his  departure  the  same  way.  Do 
you  know,"  with  a  broad  grin,  "that  I  thoroughly 
agree  with  you?  The  only  point  of  difference  be- 
tween us  is  the  identity  of  the  human  mole." 


THE  PHANTOM  IS  MYSTIFIED  87 


The  Phantom's  face  'darkened  a  trifle.  "I  ad- 
vanced the  idea  only  as  a  hypothesis,"  he  declared  a 
little  testily,  "and  as  yet  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  it 
has  any  value.  For  instance,  in  order  to  reach  Gage's 
bedroom  by  way  of  the  tunnel,  the  murderer  had  to 
go  through  your  house  and  get  down  in  the  cellar." 

"Which  could  easily  be  done.  Both  Jerome  and 
myself  are  sound  sleepers  and  the  house  has  no 
burglar  protection." 

uBut  that  isn't  all.  After  traversing  the  tunnel, 
the  murderer  had  to  enter  the  bedroom.  In  order 
to  do  so  he  had  to  work  the  mechanism  which  con- 
trols the  revolving  window  frame.  From  the  inside 
of  the  chamber  it  is  worked  by  the  nail.  Can  it  be 
manipulated  from  the  outside  as  well?" 

"Dear  me!"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  almost  jumping 
out  of  the  chair.    "I  never  thought  of  that." 

The  Phantom  eyed  him  keenly,  though  he  seemed 
wholly  absorbed  in  contemplation  of  the  salt  shaker. 
The  exclamation,  he  thought,  had  not  sounded  quite 
natural. 

"You  invented  the  contraption,"  he  pointed  out. 
"Surely  you  ought  to  know  whether  the  mechanism 
can  be  worked  by  a  man  approaching  the  room  by 
way  of  the  tunnel." 

"So  I  thought  An  inventor  ought  to  know  the 
children  of  his  brain."  He  gave  a  forced  chuckle,  as 
if  fencing  for  time  in  which  to  frame  an  answer. 
"The  fact  of  the  matter  is  that  the  contrivance  was 
intended  to  be  an  emergency  exit  and  nothing  else. 
The  spring  by  which  the  mechanism  is  operated  can't 
be  reached  by  a  man  approaching  the  room  by  way 
of  the  tunnel.  But  that,"  with  a  grin  which  wrinkled 
his  whole  face,  "does  not  exclude  the  possibility  of 
a  man  getting  through  by  the  use  of  force.  For  in- 
stance, the  frame  could  be  budged  by  prying." 


88       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


"Perhaps.  As  matters  stand,  the  whole  question 
hinges  on  whether  the  room  can  be  entered  from  the 
tunnel.  If  it  can't,  then  it  is  certain  that  Pinto  com- 
mitted the  murder.  If  it  can,  there  is  a  possibility 
that  someone  else  did  it,  though  the  preponderance 
of  evidence  still  points  in  Pinto's  direction,  for  it  is 
extremely  unlikely  that  the  murderer  was  aware  of 
the  existence  of  the  tunnel.    However  " 

He  checked  himself,  deciding  to  let  the  thought 
remain  unspoken.  The  anthropologist,  having  re- 
covered from  his  temporary  embarrassment,  gave  a 
hearty  laugh. 

"You  are  incorrigible,  my  friend.  You  are  willing 
to  a'dmit  almost  any  theory  but  the  plain  and  obvious 
one,  which  is  that  the  Gray  Phantom  committed  the 
murder.  Reminds  me  of  Pinel's  excellent  treatise 
on  the  psychology  of  the  criminal.  But  you  must  be 
tired.  Please  excuse  me  while  I  make  a  telephone 
call." 

The  Phantom  regarded  him  narrowly  as  he 
trundled  from  the  room  and  closed  the  door  behind 
him.  The  doctor  intrigued  and  baffled  him.  He  was 
almost  certain  that  Bimble  had  been  guilty  of  equivo- 
cation in  regard  to  the  tunnel  and  the  revolving 
frame.  On  the  other  hand,  this  and  other  peculiari- 
ties might  be  due  to  an  erratic  temperament.  His 
stubborn  insistence  on  the  Phantom's  guilt  could  be 
the  result  of  mental  laziness  and  a  disinclination  to 
exert  himself  over  a  case  which  did  not  interest  him. 
Yet,  after  making  all  due  allowances,  the  Phantom 
could  not  feel  wholly  at  ease. 

The  doctor,  smiling  placidly  and  without  a  sign' 
of  guile  in  his  face,  interrupted  his  reflections. 

"I've  just  had  my  friend  Inspector  Wadhane  on 
the  wire,"  he  announced.  "It  has  been  decided  to 
let  the  prisoner  sleep  off  the  effects  of  his  'debauch. 


THE  PHANTOM  IS  MYSTIFIED  89 


He  will  not  be  questioned  until  along  toward  morn- 
ing. So,  my  friend,  you  can  sleep  in  peace.  Shall 
I  show  you  to  your  room?" 

The  Phantom,  blinking  his  eyes  drowsily,  ex- 
pressed a  desire  to  retire  at  once.  Doctor  Bimble 
conducted  him  to  a  pleasant  bedroom  with  two  large 
windows  facing  the  street,  saw  that  everything  was 
in  order,  and  wished  his  guest  a  hearty  good  night. 
Even  before  he  was  out  of  the  room  the  Phantom 
had  started  to  remove  his  clothes. 

Yet,  no  sooner  had  the  door  closed  than  he  hurried 
back  into  the  garments.  Though  only  a  few  mo- 
ments ago  he  had  showed  signs  of  great  drowsiness, 
he  was  now  fully  awake,  and  his  springy  motions 
and  the  twinkle  in  his  eyes  hinted  that  sleep  was 
farthest  from  his  mind. 


CHAPTER  X 


IN  THE  TUNNEL 

THE  Phantom  waited  for  fifteen  minutes,  then 
he  quietly  opened  the  door  and  looked  down 
the  hall.  The  lights  were  turned  low  and  not 
a  sound  broke  the  stillness.  Apparently  the  anthro- 
pologist and  the  manservant  had  retired.  Stepping 
inside  the  room,  he  took  from  an  inside  pocket  the 
little  metal  box  he  always  carried,  examined  the 
snugly  packed  tools  it  contained,  and  made  sure  that 
each  was  in  good  condition.  Finally,  he  switched 
off  the  light,  noiselessly  closed  the  door  behind  him, 
and  tiptoed  down  the  stairs. 

Stealing  down  a  corridor  through  the  main  part 
of  the  house,  he  reached  the  extension  formed  by 
the  laboratory.  He  stopped  at  the  door,  tilted  his 
ear  to  the  keyhole,  and  listened  carefully.  It  had 
occurred  to  him  that  Doctor  Bimble  might  be  at 
work,  and  an  encounter  with  his  host  would  have 
proved  embarrassing.  His  keen  ears  detected  no 
sounds,  however,  and  in  another  moment  he  had 
passed  through  the  door  and  was  groping  his  way 
across  the  floor  of  the  laboratory. 

Of  a  sudden  he  stopped.  A  faint  sound  seemed 
to  come  from  the  direction  where  the  skeletons  stood 
in  their  glass-framed  cages.  He  strained  his  ears  to 
catch  a  repetition,  but  none  came.  Evidently  he  had 
been  mistaken.  He  knew  how  sounds  are  magnified 
at  night,  and  what  he  had  heard  was  probably  noth- 

90 


IN  THE  TUNNEL 


91 


ing  but  the  rattling  of  a  windowpane  or  the  creaking 
of  a  board  under  his  foot.  He  proceeded  to  the 
opposite  wall,  darting  swift  glances  to  left  and  right, 
as  if  half  suspecting  that  someone  was  lurking  in 
the  shadows.  Again  a  door  swung  noiselessly  on  its 
hinges,  and  the  Phantom  glided  down  the  stairs 
leading  to  the  cellar.  From  his  hip  pocket  he  took 
a  small  electric  flash  and  let  its  beam  play  over  the 
floor  while  he  looked  for  the  entrance  to  the  tunnel. 

For  a  time  he  searched  in  vain,  traversing  the 
length  of  the  murky  brick  walls  and  carefully  scan- 
ning each  square  foot  of  space  without  finding  a 
trace  of  the  opening.  The  mouth  of  the  passage 
seemed  to  have  disappeared  in  the  three  or  four 
hours  that  had  passed  since  he  emerged  from  the 
subterranean  tube.  He  tried  to  locate  it  by  tracing 
backward  the  course  he  had  followed  in  reaching  the 
stairs,  but  it  proved  a  difficult  task,  for  he  had  floun- 
dered about  in  total  darkness,  not  daring  to  use  his 
flash  for  fear  of  attracting  attention.  He  had  a  hazy 
impression,  however,  that  the  opening  was  in  a  di- 
agonal line  with  the  foot  of  the  stairway. 

The  gleam  of  his  flash  leaped  over  the  grimy 
bricks,  and  presently  he  detected  a  narrow  fissure  in 
the  wall.  It  extended  in  a  quadrangular  course  and 
was  barely  wide  enough  to  admit  a  match  or  a  nail. 
Inserting  one  of  the  sharp-nosed  tools  from  his 
metal  case,  he  pried  outward,  and  a  narrow  portion 
of  the  wall  swung  open.  He  saw  now  that  the  little 
fissures  constituted  the  boundaries  of  a  door.  It  was 
composed  of  bricks  threaded  on  iron  rods  and  re- 
sembling in  color  and  general  appearance  those  in 
the  surrounding  wall,  and  it  was  so  deftly  concealed 
that  only  a  careful  search  would  reveal  its  existence. 
Evidently  it  had  stood  open  when  the  Phantom 
crawled  out  of  the  tunnel,  which  explained  why  he 


92       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


ha'd  not  noticed  it.  He  suspected  that  the  thoughtful 
anthropologist,  not  caring  to  have  too  many  outsiders 
discover  the  tunnel,  had  closed  it  while  the  officers 
were  searching  the  front  of  the  house. 

The  Phantom  waited  for  a  few  minutes  while  a 
little  of  the  dank  air  in  the  cellar  found  its  way  into 
the  passage.  He  did  not  relish  the  task  ahead  of 
him,  but  he  was  determined  to  settle  a  point  on  which 
the  doctor  had  been  singularly  evasive.  The  prob- 
lem he  had  set  out  to  solve  would  be  simplified  to 
a  great  .extent,  and  he  would  save  himself  needless 
[efforts  and  loss  of  valuable  time  by  ascertaining 
whether  the  bedchamber  of  the  late  Sylvanus  Gage 
could  be  entered  by  way  of  the  tunnel. 

Having  buttoned  his  coat  tightly  and  made  cer- 
tain that  his  instrument  case  was  within  easy  reach, 
he  inserted  head  and  shoulders  in  the  opening  and 
began  the  weary  crawl  toward  the  other  end.  His 
progress  was  painfully  slow,  and  the  smell  of  the 
moist  earth  gave  him  a  sense  of  oppression  which 
he  found  hard  to  shake  off.  The  air,  dank  and  in- 
sufficient, was  almost  stifling,  and  the  walls  of  the 
narrow  passage,  bruising  his  body  at  each  twist  and 
turn,  seemed  to  exude  a  sepulchral  atmosphere  that 
insinuated  itself  into  body  and  mind. 

At  length  he  reached  the  point  where  the  tunnel 
slanted  upward  into  the  wall,  and  here  his  progress 
became  even  more  difficult.  Time  and  again  he 
slipped,  and  he  could  maintain  a  footing  only  by 
bracing  the  tips  of  his  shoes  against  rough  spots 
along  the  sides.  He  was  puffing  from  exertion  when 
finally  he  struck  a  solid  obstruction  which  told  him 
he  had  reached  the  end  of  the  passage. 

Finding  a  precarious  foothold,  he  took  out  his 
flash  and  closely  scrutinized  his  surroundings.  On 
two  sides  were  walls  of  brick,  while  directly  in  front 


IN  THE  TUNNEL 


93 


of  him  was  the  flank  of  the  window  frame.  He 
pushed  against  the  latter  with  all  his  strength,  but  it 
presented  a  firm  and  solid  resistance  to  his  efforts. 
Next  he  went  over  it  inch  by  inch,  looking  for  a 
hidden  lever  or  spring,  but  the  most  careful  search 
revealed  nothing  that  suggested  a  means  of  operating 
the  mechanism.  Finally  he  took  out  one  of  his  tools 
and,  inserting  it  in  the  tiny  rift  between  the  wall  and 
the  edge  of  the  frame,  began  to  pry  steadily.  After 
several  minutes  of  constant  fcffort  he  gave  up  the 
task  as  hopeless. 

He  leaned  back  against  the  wall  and  bent  the  full 
force  of  his  wits  to  the  task  of  finding  a  way  through 
the  obstruction.  Evidently  there  was  none.  He  had 
tapped  revery  inch  of  the  surface  and  looked  every- 
where for  a  concealed  knob  or  wire  by  which  the 
mechanism  might  be  operate'd.  A  larger  and  heavier 
tool  than  the  instrument  in  his  metal  case  would 
have  been  of  no  avail,  for  in  those  narrow  quarters 
he  could  not  have  obtained  leverage.  His  search, 
though  thorough  and  infinitely  painstaking,  had 
netted  nothing. 

The  conclusion  was  clear.  The  revolving  Hoor 
could  not  be  operated  from  the  outside;  hence  the 
murderer  of  Sylvanus  Gage  could  not  have  entered 
the  room  through  the  tunnel.  Again  the  Phantom's 
mind  reverted  to  the  inevitable  deduction  that  no  one 
but  Officer  Pinto  could  have  committed  the  crime. 

His  lungs,  which  had  been  straining  for  air  for 
the  last  quarter  of  an  hour,  felt  as  though  they  were 
on  the  point  of  bursting,  and  he  was  about  to  release 
his  foothold  and  start  back  through  the  tunnel  when 
a  faint  tapping  sound  caught  his  ears.  He  could 
not  tell  how  long  it  had  been  going  on,  for  until  now 
his  whole  attention  ha'd  been  focused  on  the  problem 
before  him.    For  all  he  knew  it  might  just  have  be- 


94       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


gun,  or  it  might  have  starte'd  long  before  he  enterecl 
the  tunnel. 

He  pressed  his  ear  against  the  side  of  the  frame: 
and  listened.  The  sounds,  quick  and  sharp,  were 
coming  in  rapid  succession,  and  at  first  he  wondered 
whether  someone  was  trying  to  attract  his  attention. 
Then  he  noticed  that  the  sounds  skipped  and  jumped, 
as  if  the  tapping  covered  a  considerable  area,  and  his 
next  surmise  was  that  the  person  on  the  other  side: 
was  making  a  systematic  search  for  something. 

"For  what?"  he  wondered;  and  in  the  next  mo- 
ment the  answer  flashed  through  his  mind.  He  re- 
membered how,  while  he  was  imprisoned  in  the  bed- 
room, momentarily  expecting  the  police  to  force  the 
door  and  pounce  upon  him,  he  had  looked  to  the 
window  as  the  only  possible  means  of  escape,  and 
how  finally  he  had  discovered  the  nail  that  proved  his 
salvation.  Evidently  the  person  on  the  other  side 
was  now  doing  the  very  thing  the  Phantom  himself 
had  been  doing  a  few  hours  ago. 

But  who  could  it  be?  As  far  as  he  knew,  no  one: 
but  Helen,  Doctor  Bimble  and  himself  was  aware 
of  the  existence  of  the  revolving  door,  and  the  tunnel. 
It  did  not  seem  likely  that  anyone  should  be  search- 
ing at  random  for  an  opening.  And  who  could  be? 
prowling  about  the  Gage  house  at  such  an  hour? 
Again  he  put  his  ear  to  the  frame.  The  tapping  ha'd 
ceased,  but  now  he  heard  another  and  different  sound 
that  caused  him  to  quiver  with  excitement.  A  slight 
metallic  noise,  like  that  produced  by  the  contact  of 
two  objects  of  steel,  told  him  that  the  person  on  the: 
inside  had  found  the  nail. 

In  a  twinkling  he  had  forgotten  his  cramped  posi-f 
tion,  the  dank  air  and  the  sickening  smell  of  moist 
earth.  All  his  senses  were  centered  on  the  sounds 
coming  from  the  other  side,  so  slight  that  his  keen 


IN  THE  TUNNEL 


95 


ears  could  scarcely  detect  them.  Something  told  him 
that  in  a  few  minutes  he  would  make  a  discovery 
of  tremendous  importance  in  relation  to  the 
Gage  murder  mystery.  Everything  depended  upon 
whether  the  person  on  the  other  side  would  give  the 
nail  the  proper  twist. 

Minutes  dragged  by  on  leaden  feet.  The  Phan- 
tom felt  his  heart  pound  chokingly  against  his  ribs, 
its  loud  beats  almost  drowning  the  slight  metallic 
sounds  coming  from  the  other  side.  After  what 
seemed  hours  of  nerve-racking  suspense,  a  sharp  and 
sudden  click  caused  him  to  start  violently,  and  he  al- 
most lost  his  insecure  footing. 

Then  the  window  frame  began  to  turn.  A  glare 
of  light  struck  his  eyes  as  the  opening  wedge  widened. 
With  great,  eager  gulps  he  drank  in  the  air  coming 
from  the  aperture.  A  minute  passed,  and  then  a 
face,  strained  and  ashen,  was  thrust  into  the  opening. 

It  was  Mrs.  Trippe,  the  housekeeper.  For  an  in- 
stant she  stared  into  the  Phantom's  startled  eyes. 

"He's  killing  me!';  she  cried.  "He's  afraid  Til 
tell!    He  locked  me  in  " 

She  jerked  her  head  to  one  side.  Slight  though 
she  was,  she  almost  filled  the  narrow  opening,  and 
he  could  see  only  a  small  strip  of  the  room  at  her 
back.  Suddenly  a  shiver  coursed  down  her  spine.  A 
hand  was  projected  beyond  the  wall,  and  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  steel  flashing  in  the  light.  Then,  in  quick 
succession,  came  a  scream  and  a  thud,  and  the  woman 
slid  from  the  window  sill. 

It  had  happened  so  quickly  that  the  Phantom  had 
not  time  to  utter  a  word  or  raise  a  hand.  Now,  be- 
fore he  could  move  a  muscle,  the  window  frame 
slammed  shut.  He  heard  a  click,  signifying  that  the 
frame  was  caught  in  the  steel  clutches  of  the  mech- 
anism.   He  pressed  his  shoulders  against  it,  but  to 


96       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


no  avail,  and  he  knew  from  his  previous  attempt  that 
the  effort  was  useless.  Filled  with  horror  at  what  he 
had  just  seen,  he  slid  Sown  the  incline  between  the 
walls  and  began  to  work  back  toward  the  cellar*-  -4 

Finally,  after  endless  jerks  and  twistings,  he; 
reached  the  tnd  of  the  tunnel — and  there  a  fresh 
shock  awaite'd  him.  His  feet  brought  up  against  a 
solid  obstruction.  Shove  against  it  as  he  might,  the 
little  door  would  not  yield  to  his  frenzied  pressure. 
For  a  little  he  laid  still  on  his  back,  thinking.  His 
mind  was  heavy  and  his  thoughts  flitted  about  in 
circles,  but  finally  it  came  to  him  that  while  he  was 
at  the  other  lend  of  the  tunnel  someone  must  have% 
placed  a  heavy  weight  against  the  door. 

He  was  trapped. 


CHAPTER  XI 


A  BLOW  PROM  BEHIND 

ONLY  one  thought  stood  out  clearly  In  the  Phan- 
tom's mind  as  he  lay  on  his  back  in  the  tunnel 
breathing  the  suffocating  fumes  of  the  damp 
:earth,  and  surrounded  by  a  silence  and  a  darkness 
so  profound  that  he  felt  as  if  a  vast  void  was  separa- 
ting him  from  the  world  of  the  living.  His  senses 
were  numbed  and  his  brain  had  ceased  to  function, 
but  somehow  his  mind  grasped  the  realization  that 
this  was  the  end  of  the  Gray  Phantom's  career. 

The  fate  awaiting  him  seemed  as  inexorable  as  the 
darkness  that  surrounded  him.  He  had  faced  great 
dangers  and  had  found  himself  in  fearful  predica- 
ments before,  but  never  had  Heath  appeared  as 
certain  and  inevitable  as  now.  Through  his  dazed 
consciousness  filtered  a  resolution  to  meet  death,  even 
in  this  hideous  form,  with  the  same  unconcern  and 
stoicism  with  which  he  had  accepted  the  favors 
destiny  had  strewn  in  his  path.  The  thought  brought 
a  feeble  smile  to  his  lips,  and  he  hoped  the  end  would 
come  before  the  thought  faded  away.  He  wanted 
the  world  in  general  and  Helen  Hardwick  in  par- 
ticular to  know  he  had  died  smiling. 

Something,  he  did  not  know  what,  stirred  faintly 
in  his  mind.  Instinctively  his  thoughts  groped  for  a 
memory  that  seemed  dim  and  far  away,  a  memory 
that  caused  his  body  to  vibrate  with  a  reawakening 
desire  to  live.    Slowly,  out  of  the  whirling  chaos  in 

97 


98       THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


his  mind,  it  came  to  him.  He  could  not — must  not 
— die!  He  could  not  pass  out  into  oblivion  with  a 
foul  crime  staining  his  name.  He  must  live  in  order 
to  revive  and  vindicate  the  faith  Helen  Hardwick 
had  once  reposed  in  him. 

The  resolve  buoyed  him  a  little,  causing  his  body 
to  throb  with  a  renascent  life  impulse.  Already  his 
mind  felt  a  little  clearer,  and  his  nerves  and  sinews 
were  beginning  to  respond  to  the  driving  force  of  his 
will.    If  his  parched  lungs  could  only  get  a  little  air! 

Again  he  placed  his  feet  against  the  door  and 
pushed  with  all  the  strength  he  could  summon.  He 
might  as  well  have  tried  to  dislodge  a  mountain.  The 
implements  in  his  pocket  case  had  helped  him 
out  of  many  a  tight  dilemma  in  the  past,  but  they 
were  of  no  avail  now.  He  still  had  the  pistol  he  had 
taken  from  Helen's  hand  while  they  stood  in  the 
closet,  and  for  an  instant  it  occurred  to  him  that  the 
report  of  a  shot  might  penetrate  the  roof  of  the  tun- 
nel and  bring  him  assistance.  A  moment  later  he 
reconsidered  bitterly.  If  the  shot  were  heard,  it 
wTould  more  likely  bring  the  police;  besides,  the  fumes 
released  by  the  explosion  might  smother  him  to  death 
in  a  few  minutes. 

With  a  great  effort  he  crawled  away  from  the  'door 
thinking  the  air  might  be  not  so  stifling  toward  the 
center  of  the  tunnel.  He  moved  only  two  or  three 
paces  when  the  terrific  pounding  of  his  heart  and  the 
protest  of  his  tortured  lungs  forced  him  to  lie  still  and 
rest.  For  several  minutes  he  lay  motionless,  save  for 
the  heaving  of  his  chest,  matching  his  wits  against 
the  hardest  problem  he  had  ever  faced. 

Of  a  sudden  something  chill  and  wet  fell  upon  his 
face.  It  was  a  mere  drop  of  moisture,  but  it  felt  like 
ice  to  his  parched  skin,  causing  every  nerve  to  quiver. 
The  contact  acted  like  an  electric  stimulant  on  his 


A  BLOW  FROM  BENIND 


99 


mind.  He  lay  rigid,  expectant,  wondering  why  the 
trivial  occurrence  should  affect  him  so  strangely,  and 
presently  another  drop  of  moisture  splashed  against 
his  forehead,  sending  an  icy  shiver  down  his  spine. 

Suddenly  he  jerked  up  his  head,  striking  it  against 
the  roof  of  the  tunnel.  In  a  twinkling  he  had  grasped 
the  significance  of  the  dropping  moisture.  There 
must  be  a  leak  in  the  vault  of  the  passage,  and  the 
soil  above  was  probably  soft  and  porous,  enabling 
the  tiny  globules  of  water  to  percolate. 

The  deduction  jolted  the  last  remnant  of  stupor 
out  of  his  body.  He  was  still  weak,  but  the  play  of 
his  wits  kindled  his  nervous  energy.  He  ran  his 
hand  along  the  roof,  locating  the  point  where  the 
moisture  was  seeping  through.  The  arched  vault 
was  supported  by  boards  running  in  a  longitudinal 
direction  and  braced  at  intervals  by  diagonal  props. 
He  gave  a  hoarse  shout  of  elation  as  he  noticed  that 
the  boards  were  rotting  from  infiltration  of  moisture. 

He  had  forgotten  the  agonized  straining  of  his 
lungs  for  air.  His  exploring  fingers  found  a  point 
where  the  ends  of  two  boards  came  together.  Tak- 
ing a  tool  from  the  metal  case,  he  inserted  it  in  the 
joint  and  pried.  After  a  few  vigorous  wrenches  the 
board  bent  downward.  Now  he  gripped  its  edges 
with  his  fingers  and,  lifting  himself  from  the  floor 
of  the  tunnel,  forced  it  down  by  the  sheer  weight  of 
his  body.  It  snapped,  and  he  pushed  it  down  the 
passage,  then  attacked  the  next  board.  It  gave  more 
easily  than  the  first,  and  now  he  began  to  claw  and 
scratch  his  way  through  the  damp  earth.  Remember- 
ing the  length  of  the  incline  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
passage,  he  judged  that  the  layer  of  soil  could  not  be 
more  than  four  or  five  feet  deep. 

More  than  once  he  felt  on  the  point  of  utter  ex- 
haustion, but  the  prospect  of  ultimate  release  fortified 


100      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


him.  Clump  after  clump  of  dirt  fell  at  his  feet,  and 
now  and  then  he  struck  a  stratum  of  gravelly  soil 
that  yielded  more  easily  to  his  efforts.  From  time 
to  time  he  had  to  stop  digging  and  brush  aside  the 
accumulation  at  his  feet.  A  wall  of  dirt  was  gradu- 
ally forming  on  each  side  of  him,  cutting  down  the 
scant  supply  of  humid  air  that  had  so  far  sustained 
him,  but  he  kept  at  his  work  with  the  frenzied  per- 
sistence of  one  battling  for  his  life.  There  was  a  dull 
roaring  in  his  head  and  a  burning  torment  in  his 
lungs,  and  there  came  moments  of  despair  when  he 
wondered  whether  his  strength  would  last  until  he 
had  clawed  through  the  remaining  layer  of  earth. 

Then,  after  what  seemed  hours  of  agonizing  toil, 
a  cascade  of  small  stones  and  loose  dirt  tumbled 
down  over  his  head  and  shoulders.  Momentarily 
blinded,  he  could  scarcely  realize  that  his  hand  had 
thrust  through  the  obstruction  and  was  now  clutching 
at  empty  air. 

The  supense  over,  he  felt  suddenly  limp  and  shaky. 
His  legs  doubled  up  under  him  and  he  sank  back 
against  the  wall  of  the  tunnel,  greedily  sucking  in  the 
fresh  air  that  poured  down  through  the  opening. 
For  a  time  he  was  content  to  do  nothing  but  rest  his 
racked  limbs  and  drink  in  huge  lungfuls  of  air. 

Through  the  rift  overhead  he  caught  a  glimpse  of 
leaden  sky.  A  myriad  of  strident  noises  told  that 
the  city  was  awakening.  The  discordant  sounds  were 
like  jubilant  music  in  his  :ears,  for  a  while  ago  he  had 
thought  he  would  never  see  the  light  of  another  day. 
After  his  terrifying  experience  in  the  subterranean 
passage  it  was  hard  to  realize  that  he  was  again  one 
of  the  living.  He  struggled  to  his  feet,  lurchefl 
dizzily  hither  and  thither,  and  rubbed  the  dirt  out  of 
his  eyes.  Then,  steadying  himself  with  one  hand, 
he  cautiously  pushed  his  head  through  the  opening. 


A  BLOW  FROM  BEHIND  101 


No  one  being  in  sight,  he  scrambled  to  the  surface. 
He  stood  in  the  center  of  the  narrow  space  be- 
tween Doctor  Bimble's  laboratory  and  the  rear  of 
the  Gage  Establishment.  On  the  other  sides  of  the 
inclosure  were  a  squatty  structure  that  might  have 
been  a  laundry  and  a  slightly  taller  building  that, 
judging  from  the  barrels  and  boxes  piled  against  the 
wall,  was  probably  a  grocery.  Evidendy  the  stores 
and  shops  had  not  yet  opened,  for  there  was  no  sign 
of  life  in  either  direction. 

The  Phantom  took  a  few  steps  forward,  then 
stopped  abruptly,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  small  window 
in  the  rear  of  the  cigar  store.  A  recollection  sent 
a  shiver  through  his  body.  He  remembered  the 
hand  that  had  appeared  so  suddenly  in  the  narrow 
opening,  the  swift,  murderous  stroke  and  the  groan 
that  had  died  so  quickly.  There  was  an  air  of  peace] 
and  tranquillity  about  the  building  that  struck  him  as 
weirdly  incongruous,  in  view  of  the  scene  that  had 
been  enacted  wTithin. 

He  was  about  to  turn  away  when  a  quick,  light 
step  sounded  behind  him.  Before  he  could  move, 
two  sinewy  hands  had  gripped  him  about  the  throat, 
forcing  him  down.  He  tried  to  resist,  but  he  was 
still  too  weak  to  exert  much  physical  effort.  A  sick- 
eningly  sweetish  smell  assailed  his  nostrils,  he  felt 
his  body  grow  limp,  there  was  a  roaring  in  his  head 
that  sounded  like  a  distant  waterfall,  and  then  he 
had  a  sensation  of  sinking — sinking. 


CHAPTER  XII 


THE  PHANTOM  HAS  AN  INSPIRATION 

"       EMARKABLE,  sir ;  most  remarkable !  May 
I  feel  your  pulse?" 

The  Gray  Phantom  knew,  even  before  he 
opened  his  eyes,  that  the  speaker  was  Doctor  Tyson 
Bimble.  He  was  lying  in  bed,  undressed,  in  the  same 
room  his  host  had  assigned  him  the  night  before. 
The  lights  were  on,  so  he  must  have  slept  through 
the  day,  and  he  felt  correspondingly  refreshed. 

The  anthropologist,  sitting  in  a  chair  beside  the 
bed,  was  timing  his  pulse  beats.  The  doctor's  thin 
legs  were  wrapped  in  the  same  tight  trousers  he  had 
worn  on  their  first  meeting,  and  an  acid-stained  coat 
was  tightly  buttoned  across  his  plump  stomach. 

"Normal,"  he  declared  admiringly,  pocketing  his 
wratch.  "You  possess  extraordinary  recuperative 
powers,  my  friend.    What  a  constitution!" 

The  Phantom's  lips  tightened.  Scraps  of  recol- 
lection were  coming  to  him.  He  gazed  narrowly 
into  the  doctor's  guileless  face. 

"A  little  chloroform  goes  a  long  way  even  with  a 
constitution  like  mine,"  he  remarked  pointedly. 

"Ah,  but  you  were  utterly  exhausted,  my  friend. 
Otherwise  my  excellent  Jerome  would  not  have  had 
quite  such  an  easy  time  with  you.  A  little  strong- 
arm  play  and  a  whiff  or  two  of  chloroform  were  all 
that  was  necessary.  The  effect  soon  wore  off,  and 
you  lapsed  into  a  natural  and  invigorating  sleep." 

102 


THE  PHANTOM  HAS  AN  INSPIRATION  103 


"So,  it  was  Jerome.  I  guessed  as  much."  The 
Phantom  looked  perplexedly  at  the  doctor.  "But 
wasn't  it  a  rather  rough  way  of  putting  a  man  to 
bed?" 

"It  was  the  only  safe  way  of  dealing  with  an  im- 
pulsive and  strong-headed  man  like  you.  But  for 
the  timely  appearance  of  my  admirable  Jerome,  you 
would  undoubtedly  have  walked  straight  into  the 
arms  of  the  police." 

The  argument  sounded  plausible  enough.  The 
Phantom  realized  that  the  reaction  following  his 
escape  from  the  tunnel  might  have  caused  him  to  do 
several  foolish  things. 

An  astute  grin  creased  the  doctor's  face.  "Evert 
the  Gray  Phantom  is  at  times  very  transparent.  Last 
night,  when  you  started  removing  your  clothes  in  my 
presence,  I  knew  that  you  had  no  intention  of  going 
to  bed.  However,  I  reasoned  that  you  were  an  in- 
telligent man  and  could  be  trusted  to  take  care  of 
yourself.  I  woke  up  at  an  early  hour  this  morning 
and  stepped  to  your  door.  You  had  not  returned. 
Greatly  alarmed,  I  told  Jerome  to  look  for  you. 
The  estimable  fellow  found  you  shortly  after  you 
had  dug  your  way  out  of  the  tunnel.  You  ought  to 
feel  deeply  indebted  to  him,  sir." 

"I  do,"  with  a  faint  trace  of  sarcasm.  "But  I 
should  like  to  wring  the  neck  of  the  practical  joker 
who  blockaded  this  end  of  the  passage  while  I  was 
at  the  other." 

The  words  were  no  sooner  spoken  than  the  doc- 
tor's face  underwent  a  startling  transformation. 
The  affable  smile  vanished,  giving  way  to  a  look  of 
such  violent  wrath  that  even  the  Phantom  felt  a  little 
awed. 

"The  hound  shall  get  his  just  deserts,  sir,"  de- 
clared the  doctor  in  snarling  tones.    Then,  as  if 


104      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


regretting  his  display  of  temper,  he  laughed  easily. 
"Provided,  of  course,  we  learn  who  perpetrated  the 
outrage." 

Again  the  Phantom  was  puzzled.  He  was  certain 
the  anthropologist's  ferocious  outburst  had  been 
genuine.  It  had  been  far  too  real  and  convincing  to 
be  feigned  even  by  a  clever  actor.  Yet  he  sensed  a 
contradiction.  Whoever  was  responsible  for  the 
blockaded  door  must  have  traversed  the  doctor's 
house,  on  his  way  to  the  cellar.  It  did  not  seem  likely 
that  strangers  could  be  taking  such  liberties  in  a 
private  residence  without  the  knowledge  of  its  occu- 
pant. 

"I  really  ought  to  have  new  locks  put  on  the 
doors,"  observed  Bimble,  addressing  himself  rather 
than  his  guest.  "That  collection  of  mine  is  too  val- 
uable to  be  left  unprotected." 

It  sounded  convincing,  and  the  casual  tone  went  a 
long  way  toward  quieting  the  Phantom's  misgivings. 
He  knew  that  an  unduly  suspicious  nature  is  as  bad 
as  a  gullible  one.  Hadn't  he  been  too  prone  to  put 
the  wrong  construction  on  the  eccentricities  of  a  sci- 
entist? Everything  considered,  the  doctor  s  actions 
had  certainly  been  friendly.  Had  his  intentions  been 
hostile,  he  could  easily  have  turnecl  his  guest  over  to 
the  police. 

The  Phantom  shifted  the  subject.  "Well,  at  any 
rate,  I  proved  to  my  satisfaction  that  Gage's  bed- 
chamber can't  be  entered  by  way  of  the  tunnel." 

The  twinkle  behind  the  lenses  expressed  doubt  and 
amusement.  "And  so  you  have  convinced  yourself 
that  Pinto  committed  the  murder?" 

"That  nobody  else  could  have  committee!  it,"  cor- 
rected the  Phantom. 

"Which"  means  precisely  the  same  thing.  Evert 
if  we  grant  that  you  are  being  frank  with  me — whicK 


THE  PHANTOM  HAS  AN  INSPIRATION  105 


I  strongly  doubt,  by  the  way — you  seem  to  have  a 
passion  for  drawing  obvious  inferences.  From  the 
fact  that  you  were  unable  to  operate  the  mechanism 
from  the  outside  you  deduce  that  the  murderer  could 
not  have  entered  the  room  via  the  tunnel.  That, 
my  friend,  is  very  superficial  reasoning.  For  in- 
stance, Gage  himself  might  have  admitted  the  mur- 
derer through  the  revolving  frame." 

The  Phantom's  brows  went  up.  The  possibility 
suggested  by  the  doctor  had  not  occurred  to  him. 
The  next  moment  he  grinned  at  the  sheer  preposter- 
ousness  of  the  idea.  "But  few  men  are  obliging 
enough  to  welcome  their  murderers  with  open  arms." 

"Not  if  they  come  as  murderers."  The  doctor 
gave  him  a  keen,  searching  look.  "But  suppose  they 
come  in  the  guise  of  friends?  That's  only  a  ran- 
dom suggestion,  but  you  will  admit  the  possibility 
exists."  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  if  to  dismiss 
the  subject.  "Jerome  has  repaired  the  damage  you 
wrought  in  the  tunnel  last  night,  covering  up  all 
traces  of  your  little  adventure,  so  there  is  no  danger 
of  the  police  tracing  you  here." 

"Thoughtful,"  murmured  the  Phantom  a  little 
absendy. 

"Which  reminds  me,"  added  the  anthropologist, 
"that  you  are  again  a  hunted  man.  The  police  have 
seen  their  mistake  and  the  prisoner  was  released  this 
morning.  He  bears  a  superficial  resemblance  to  you, 
but  comparison  of  his  finger  prints  with  those  of  the 
Gray  Phantom  proved  conclusively  he  was  not  the 
man  they  wanted,  and  he  seems  to  have  given  a  sat- 
isfactory account  of  himself  in  every  way." 

"What  else?"'  asked  the  Phantom,  deeply  inter- 
ested. 

Doctor  Bimble  laughed  merrily.  "Every  news- 
paper in  town  is  poking  fun  at  the  stupid  police — and 


106      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


well  they  might.  The  prisoner  proved  to  be  a  re- 
porter employed  by  the  Sphere,  whose  only  offense 
is  an  inclination  to  forget  that  these  are  dry  times. 
A  reporter,  of  all  persons!    It's  delicious!" 

"A  reporter — on  the  Sphere/"  echoed  the  Phan- 
tom, sensing  a  possible  significance  in  the  combina- 
tion. "Not,  by  any  chance,  the  one  who  reported 
the  Gage  murder?" 

"The  same.  That's  what  lends  an  extra  touch  of 
humor  to  the  silly  blunder.  Imagine  a  journalist, 
confronted  with  a  scarcity  of  news,  going  out  and 
committing  a  murder  in  order  to  have  something  to 
write  about!" 

The  Phantom  joined  in  the  doctor's  laughter,  but 
his  face  sobered  quickly.  "Is  this  unfortunate  jour- 
nalist wearing  a  beard?" 

"No;  but  I  understand  your  photograph  in  the 
rogues'  gallery  shows  you  smooth  shaven,  so  the 
absence  of  a  beard  really  enhances  the  resemblance 
to  the  pictures  published." 

The  Phantom  was  silent  for  a  time.  There  was 
a  hint  of  deep  thought  in  the  lines  around  his  eyes. 
His  hand  passed  slowly  across  his  beard,  still  gritty 
and  tangled  from  his  experience  in  the  tunnel.  Sud- 
denly the  muscles  of  his  face  twitched. 

"Anything  else  in  the  papers,  doctor?" 

"Only  the  usual  silly  doings  of  a  silly  world." 

"I  mean  in  connection  with  the  murder.  No  new 
developments?" 

"None  whatever,  except  that  the  search  for  the 
Gray  Phantom  has  been  renewed  with  increased 
vigor.  There  is  an  interview  with  the  police  commis- 
sioner, in  which  that  optimistic  soul  declares  the 
rascal  cannot  have  left  New  York  and  that  he  will 
surely  be  captured  within  the  next  few  hours." 

The  Phantom  smiled  amusedly,  but  there  was  a 


THE  PHANTOM  HAS  AN  INSPIRATION  107 


fog  in  his  mind.  Was  it  possible  no  one  had  yet  dis- 
covered that  a  second  murder  had  been  perpetrated 
in  the  Sylvanus  Gage  house?  With  his  own  eyes 
the  Phantom  had  seen  the  housekeeper's  face  fade 
into  the  ashen  hue  of  death,  and  it  seemed  incredible 
that  the  body  had  not  been  found. 

"By  the  way,"  remarked  Doctor  Bimble,  as  if 
carrying  out  the  other's  train  of  thought,  "I  wonder 
what  has  become  of  Gage's  housekeeper.  I  walked 
over  there  this  morning  to  see  if  I  could  do  anything 
for  the  poor  lady.  The  front  door  was  unlocked, 
but  Mrs.  Trippe  wasn't  about." 

It  required  a  little  effort  on  the  Phantom's  part  to 
keep  his  voice  steady.  "H'm.  She  has  had  quite  a 
shock.  Perhaps  she  is  lying  ill  and  helpless  in  some 
part  of  the  house." 

"The  same  thing  occurred  to  me,  and  so  I  looked 
in  every  room  in  the  house.  The  lady  was  nowhere 
in  sight,  however.  Naturally  she  found  it  unpleas- 
ant to  live  alone  in  the  place  after  the  murder.  She 
may  have  gone  away  for  a  visit." 

"Yes,  quite  likely."  It  was  on  the  Phantom's 
tongue  to  tell  what  he  had  seen,  but  for  a  reason  not 
quite  clear  to  himself  he  desisted.  Doctor  Bimble's 
revelation  was  somewhat  staggering,  and  the  disap- 
pearance of  the  housekeeper's  body  was  a  poser  that 
baffled  the  Phantom's  astuteness.  The  mystery 
seemed  to  grow  more  tangled  and  intricate  with  every 
passing  hour,  and  he  felt  that,  so  far,  his  progress 
had  been  dishearteningly  slow.  Yet,  with  the  whole 
city  and  its  environs  converted  into  a  vast  man  trap, 
what  could  he  do? 

"Dear  me!"  The  anthropologist  jumped  up  with 
the  abruptness  of  a  rabbit.  "I  sit  here  babbling  like 
a  garrulous  old  woman  while  you  must  be  famishing. 
I  shall  have  Jerome  bring  you  some  food  at  once.  I 


108      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


suppose,"  stopping  on  his  way  to  the  door  and  re- 
garding the  Phantom  with  a  serio-comic  expression, 
"it  isn't  necessary  to  warn  you  that  it  would  be  un- 
wise to  go  out  on  the  streets  a  night  like  this." 

A  grin  masked  the  Phantom's  searching  look. 
"You  seem  deeply  concerned  in  my  welfare,  doctor." 

"Naturally."  ^  Bimble  drew  himself  up.  "With 
me  a  bargain  is  always  a  bargain.  I  hope  you 
haven't  forgotten  our  understanding." 

"I  see,"  the  Gray  Phantom  replied.  "You  want 
my  skeleton  to  come  to  you  intact.  Yes,  doctor,  I'm 
aware  of  the  inclemency  of  the  weather.  You 
needn't  worry  on  my  account." 

The  doctor  tarried  a  moment  longer,  cleared  his 
throat  as  if  about  to  say  something  else,  then  swung 
around  on  his  heels  and  left  the  room.  The  Phan- 
tom looked  about  him.  On  a  chair  near  the  bed 
hung  his  clothes,  neatly  brushed  and  pressed,  and 
on  the  dresser,  laid  out  in  an  orderly  row,  were  the 
contents  of  his  pockets,  including  pistol,  metal  case, 
and  watch.  The  Phantom  slipped  out  of  bed  and 
examined  the  articles.  Nothing  was  missing  and 
nothing  had  been  disturbed.  Evidently  Doctor 
Bimble  trusted  to  his  guest's  good  sense  to  keep  him 
indoors. 

And  well  he  might,  was  the  Phantom's  grim 
thought.  There  were  excellent  reasons  why  he 
should  remain  under  the  anthropologist's  roof — 
reasons  which  only  a  fool  or  a  desperado  would 
ignore.  The  police,  goaded  by  ridicule  and  incensed 
at  the  way  they  had  been  made  game  of,  were  un- 
doubtedly exerting  every  effort  and  using  every  trick 
and  stratagem  to  ensnare  their  quarry.  There  were 
pitfalls  at  every  crossing,  traps  in  every  block,  prying 
eyes  in  a  thousand  places.  To  defy  such  dangers 
would  be  sheer  madness. 


THE  PHANTOM  HAS  AN  INSPIRATION  109 


Yet  there  were  equally  urgent  reasons  why  the 
Phantom  should  not  remain  idle.  One  of  them,  and 
the  most  potent  of  them  all,  had  to  do  with  Helen 
Hardwick.  Another  was  the  Phantom's  irrepressible 
passion  for  flinging  his  gauntlet  in  the  face  of  danger. 
A  third  was  the  firm  conviction  that  he  could  rely 
on  his  mental  and  physical  agility  to  see  him  through, 
no  matter  what  hazards  he  might  encounter. 

He  sprang  back  into  bed  as  a  noise  sounded  at 
the  door.  The  cat-footed  and  tight-lipped  man- 
servant entered  with  a  folding  table,  a  stack  of 
newspapers,  and  a  trayful  of  steaming  dishes.  The 
Phantom  watched  the  nimble  play  of  his  long,  pre- 
hensile fingers  as  he  set  the  table. 

"You're  quite  a  scrapper,  Jerome,"  he  observed 
good-naturedly. 

uYes,  sir."  The  man's  gloomy  face  was  un- 
readable. 

"You  didn't  give  me  much  of  a  chance  to  use  my 
fists  on  you." 
"No,  sir.'1 

The  Phantom  attacked  the  hot  and  savory  soup. 
"Pugilistic  and  culinary  talents  are  a  rare  combina- 
tion, Jerome.'1 

"Yes,  sir." 

"But  you  are  not  very  much  of  a  conversation- 
alist." 

"No,  sir." 

The  man,  standing  with  his  back  to  the  wall,  ap- 
parently immovable  save  when  he  unbent  to  pass  a 
dish  or  replenish  the  water  tumbler,  piqued  the 
Phantom's  curiosity.  A  grenadier  turned  to  stone 
while  standing  at  attention  could  not  be  more  rigid 
and  impassive  than  Jerome,  yet  there  was  a  hint  of 
constant  alertness  about  the  dull  eyes  and  the  lines 
at  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 


110      THE  GRAY  PHANTOMS  RETURN 


"There  are  moments  when  silence  is  golden,"  ob- 
served the  Phantom.    "Perhaps  this  is  one  of  them." 
"Perhaps,  sir." 

The  Phantom  finished  the  meal  in  silence.  When 
Jerome  had  gone,  he  turned  to  the  newspapers,  notic- 
ing that  the  front  pages  were  largely  given  over  to 
himself.  His  own  photograph  was  published  side  by 
side  with  that  of  the  Sphere  reporter,  whose  name 
appeared  to  be  Thomas  Granger.  Many  thousands 
of  dollars  were  being  wagered  on  the  outcome  of 
the  contest  between  the  Phantom  and  the  police,  with 
the  odds  slightly  in  favor  of  the  latter.  A  yellow 
journal  was  offering  prizes  to  those  of  its  readers 
who  furnished  the  best  suggestions  for  the  capture 
of  the  famous  outlaw.  There  were  interviews  with 
leading  citizens  in  all  walks  of  life,  expressing  amaze- 
ment and  indignation  over  the  murder  of  Sylvanus 
Gage  and  the  dilatory  tactics  of  the  officials.  Even 
Wall  Street  was  disturbed,  for  who  knew  but  what 
the  celebrated  rogue  was  planning  another  of  the 
stupendous  raids  that  had  rocked  the  financial  world 
on  two  or  three  occasions  in  the  past? 

The  Phantom  was  amused,  but  also  a  trifle  per- 
turbed. The  handicaps  he  had  to  overcome  if  he 
were  to  accomplish  his  purpose  were  rather  stagger- 
ing. But  for  the  eccentric  anthropologist's  hospi- 
tality he  might  even  now  be  in  the  coils  of  the  police. 
There  was  a  troubled  gleam  in  his  eyes  as  he  tossed 
the  papers  aside.  For  several  minutes  he  sat  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed,  a  thoughtful  pucker  between  his 
eyes,  abstractedly  gazing  down  at  the  papers  on  the 
floor. 

Of  a  sudden  he  roused  himself  out  of  a  brown 
study.  While  his  thoughts  had  been  far  away,  his 
eyes  had  been  steadily  fixed  on  the  two  photographs 
in  the  center  of  the  page  spread  out  at  his  feet.  Now 


THE  PHANTOM  HAS  AN  INSPIRATION  111 


a  steely  glitter  appeared  in  his  narrowing  eyes  anb! 
a  smile  spread  slowly  from  the  corners  of  his  lips. 

In  an  instant  he  was  on  his  feet,  glancing  at  his 
watch.  It  was  almost  ten  o'clock.  He  hurried 
quietly  to  the  door,  listened  at  the  keyhole  for  a  few 
moments,  then  shot  the  bolt.  From  now  on  his 
movements  were  characterized  by  the  brisk  precision 
of  one  acting  on  an  inspiration.  Taking  a  sharp- 
edged  tool  from  his  pocket  case,  he  stepped  to  the 
wash  stand  and  mixed  some  lather.  A  few  deft 
strokes  and  slashes,  and  his  beard  was  gone.  Since 
Patrolman  Pinto  had  recognized  him  in  spite  of  it, 
the  beard  was  no  longer  useful,  and  the  reddish  and 
bristly  mustache  which  he  took  from  a  wrapper  in 
his  metal  case  and  affixed  to  his  lips  would  serve 
fairly  well  as  a  temporary  disguise.  After  a  brief 
glance  in  the  mirror,  he  put  on  his  clothes  and 
pocketed  the  articles  on  the  dresser. 

The  Gray  Phantom  was  ready  for  one  of  the 
maddest  and  most  perilous  enterprises  of  his  career. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


KIDNAPED 

SOMEWHERE  a  clock  was  striking  ten  as  the 
Phantom  withdrew  the  bolt  and,  silent  as  a  cat, 
stepped  out  into  the  hall.  He  leaned  over  the 
balustrade  and  looked  down.  From  the  rear  came 
an  occasional  tinkle  of  glassware.  Doctor  Bimble, 
never  dreaming  that  his  guest  was  foolhardy  enough 
to  leave  his  secure  retreat  a  second  time,  was  evi- 
dently at  work  in  his  laboratory.  Noiselessly  the 
Phantom  stole  down  the  stairs,  carefully  testing  each 
step  before  he  intrusted  his  weight  to  it.  The  door 
opened  without  a  sound,  and  he  darted  a  quick 
glance  up  and  down  the  street. 

A  fine  drizzle  was  falling  and  the  sidewalks  glis- 
tened in  the  lights  from  the  street  lamps  and  win- 
dows. There  was  a  thin  sprinkling  of  pedestrians 
in  the  thoroughfare.  Outside  a  pool  room  across 
the  street  stood  a  group  of  loafers,  and  a  band  of 
gospel  workers  was  addressing  an  apathetic  crowd 
on  the  nearest  corner.  The  Phantom  was  about  to 
step  away  from  the  Hoor  when  he  saw  something 
that  caused  him  to  press  close  to  the  wall. 

"Our  friend  Pinto, "  he  mused  as  a  thickset  figure 
jogged  past.  "Seems  a  bit  distracted  this  evening. 
Wonder  what's  up." 

The  policeman  passeH  on  with  only  a  perfunctory 
glance  in  the  Phantom's  direction.  There  was  some- 
thing about  his  gait  and  the  way  he  swung  his  baton 

112 


KIDNAPED 


113 


which"  suggested  that  his  mind  was  not  quite  at  ease. 
The  Phantom  waited  until  he  had  turned  the  corner, 
then  crept  out  of  the  doorway,  assuming  an  easy, 
swinging  gait  as  he  struck  the  sidewalk  and  turned 
west. 

The  streets  had  their  usual  humdrum  appearance, 
but  beneath  the  calm  on  the  surface  he  sensed  a  ten- 
sion and  an  air  of  repressed  activity.  It  might  have 
been  only  imagination,  but  he  thought  people  were 
regarding  each  other  with  covert  suspicion,  as  if 
friends  and  neighbors  were  no  longer  to  be  trusted. 
The  Phantom  sauntering  along  as  if  he  had  not  a 
care  in  the  world,  turned  into  the  Bowery  and  pro- 
ceeded toward  the  nearest  station  of  the  elevated 
railway.  No  taxicabs  were  in  sight,  but  he  would 
be  comparatively  safe  once  he  was  aboard  a  train. 

He  whistled  a  merry  little  tune,  but  he  was  uncom- 
fortably aware  that  the  cut  and  quality  of  his  clothes 
were  attracting  attention  in  that  squalid  neighbor- 
hood. Now  he  was  only  a  few  paces  from  the  ele- 
vated stairs.  The  space  immediately  in  front  of  him 
was  brightly  illuminated  by  a  corner  light,  and  each 
forward  step  was  taken  at  great  risk.  He  advanced 
with  an  air  of  unconcern,  glanced  languidly  at  the 
papers  and  magazines  spread  out  on  the  news  stall, 
and  in  another  moment  he  would  have  been  starting 
up  the  stairs. 

Just  then  he  felt  the  sharp  scrutiny  of  a  pair  of 
eyes.  Their  owner,  he  fancied,  was  stationed  in  the 
dark  doorway  of  an  abandoned  corner  saloon,  only 
a  few  steps  from  the  foot  of  the  stairway,  but  he 
dared  not  look  back  or  sideways.  In  a  second  he 
had  rallied  his  wits  to  the  emergency.  To  show  the 
slightest  nervousness  or  seem  in  a  hurry  would  in- 
stantly provoke  a  sharp  command  to  halt.  He  pur- 
chased a  newspaper,  glanced  disdainfully  at  the  head- 


114      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


lines  on  the  first  page,  and  was  chuckling  over  a 
cartoon  on  the  sporting  page  as  he  leisurely  began  to 
ascend  the  stairs. 

A  loud  rumbling  told  that  a  train  was  approach- 
ing. The  Phantom  pursued  his  unhurried  pace, 
conscious  that  the  owner  of  the  prying  eyes  had 
stepped  out  of  the  doorway  and  was  regarding  him 
suspiciously.  Suddenly,  as  he  reached  a  turn  in  the 
stairs,  a  cry  rang  out: 

"Stop!" 

The  Phantom  looked  down  with  an  air  of  idle 
curiosity,  as  if  it  were  unthinkable  that  the  command 
could  be  meant  for  him,  and  climbed  on.  He  had 
almost  reached  the  top  when  a  second  and  more  in- 
sistent cry  sounded. 

uHey,  there !    I  mean  you/" 

The  Phantom  climbed  the  remaining  steps,  reach- 
ing the  ticket  window  just  as  a  train  roared  into  the 
station.  Three  sharp  taps  sounded  against  the  side- 
walk below,  followed  by  a  shrill  blast  of  a  police 
whistle.  The  Phantom  dropped  his  ticket  in  the 
chopper  and  stepped  out  on  the  platform.  The  train 
gates  were  open  and  a  few  passengers  were  getting 
aboard.  For  a  moment  he  hesitated;  then  he  hurried 
swiftly  to  the  end  of  the  deserted  platform  and 
leaped  out  on  the  narrow  walk  used  by  track 
workers. 

The  train  rolled  out  of  the  station.  The  Phantom, 
lying  flat,  guessed  that  the  agent  at  the  next  stop  had 
already  been  notified  to  hold  it  for  search,  and  it 
was  this  circumstance  that  had  decided  him  against 
getting  aboard.  From  the  street  rose  a  great  hub- 
bub. He  began  to  crawl  along  the  narrow  span, 
screened  from  sight  by  a  heavy  beam.  Each  mo- 
ment was  precious  now,  for  soon  the  police  would 
learn  that  the  Phantom  was  not  on  the  train,  and 


KIDNAPED 


115 


then  they  would  guess  that  he  was  hiding  somewhere 
on  the  platform  or  the  track. 

He  had  crawled  the  length  of  half  a  block  when 
he  stopped  and  looked  down.  The  commotion  at 
the  corner  had  ceased,  but  as  he  glanced  behind  him 
he  saw  that  several  dark  forms  were  moving  rapidly 
across  the  platform,  as  if  looking  for  someone.  At 
the  point  where  he  lay  the  street  was  dimly  lighted 
and  almost  deserted.  Agilely  he  swung  his  body 
from  the  walk,  clutched  the  beam  with  both  hands 
until  he  could  obtain  a  foothold  along  one  of  the 
heavy  iron  pillars  that  supported  the  structure,  then 
slid  quickly  to  the  ground.  Standing  in  the  shadow 
of  the  pillar,  he  looked  about  him.  Apparently  he 
had  not  been  seen,  but  in  a  few  moments  a  dragnet 
would  be  thrown  around  the  vicinity,  and  he  would 
have  to  exercise  the  utmost  speed  and  caution  if  he 
was  to  escape. 

Quickly  he  dodged  into  a  side  street.  On  the 
corner  was  a  patrol  box,  and,  even  as  he  glanced  at 
it,  the  bulb  at  the  top  of  the  pole  flashed  into  a  green 
brilliance.  He  knew  what  the  signal  meant.  A  gen- 
eral alarm  had  been  sent  out,  spreading  the  news  that 
the  Gray  Phantom  had  been  seen.  He  hurried  on, 
but  he  had  not  reached  far  when  a  patrolman  ap- 
peared around  the  opposite  corner,  forcing  him  to 
take  refuge  in  a  dark  cellarway.  Luckily  the  green 
light  had  already  attracted  the  policeman's  atten- 
tion, and  he  hurried  past  the  point  where  the  Phan- 
tom was  hidden,  and  made  for  the  box  on  the  corner. 
While  the  bluecoat  was  receiving  his  instructions 
'from  the  station  house  the  Phantom  crawled  out  of 
his  retreat  and,  clinging  close  to  the  shadows  along 
the  walls,  hastened  in  the  other  direction. 

He  was  very  cautious  now.  Once  out  of  the  im- 
mediate neighborhood,  the  greatest  danger  would 


116      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


be  past,  but  for  the  present  every  step  of  the  way 
bristled  with  perils.  A  taxicab  hove  into  sight  as  he 
reached  an  intersection  of  streets,  but  the  chauffeur 
showed  no  inclination  to  heed  his  signal.  The  Phan- 
tom placed  himself  directly  in  the  path  of  the  onrush- 
ing  vehicle.  It  stopped  with  a  grinding  of  brakes, 
accompanied  with  a  medley  of  oaths. 

"What  d'ye  mean?"  demanded  the  chauffeur. 
"Can't  you  see  I'm  busy?" 

"Double  fare,"  suggested  the  Phantom  tempt- 
ingly. 

A  sharp  glance  shot  out  from  beneath  the  visor 
of  the  driver's  cap.    "Where  to?" 

"South  Ferry,"  said  the  Phantom,  though  his 
actual  destination  was  a  good  distance  short  of  that 
point. 

"All  right,"  with  a  shrewd  glance  at  his  fare. 
"Get  in." 

He  held  the  door  open  and  the  Phantom  entered 
the  cab.  They  had  proceeded  only  a  short  distance, 
however,  when  the  passenger  pinned  a  bill  to  the 
cushion,  cautiously  stepped  out  on  to  the  running 
board  and  hopped  off  in  the  middle  of  a  dark  block. 
He  had  not  quite  approved  of  the  chauffeur's  looks. 

Just  ahead  of  him  lay  the  wholesale  section  of 
Broadway,  at  that  time  of  night  as  gloomy  and  life- 
less a  stretch  of  thoroughfare  as  can  be  found  in  all 
New  York.  The  Phantom  walked  briskly  to  the 
corner  and  was  turning  south  when  he  all  but  col- 
lided with  a  red-faced  heavy-jowled  policeman. 

"Pardon,"  he  said  lightly.  Quickly  he  stuck  a 
cigar  between  his  lips,  tugging  at  his  mustache  with 
one  hand  and  exploring  his  vest  pocket  with  the 
other.  "By  the  way,  officer,  happen  to  have  a 
match?" 

The  officer  produced  the  desired  article,  and  in 


KIDNAPED 


117 


return  the  Phantom  proffered  a  cigar  while  he  lighted 
his  own.  With  a  hearty  "Thank  you,  sor,"  the  po- 
liceman put  the  weed  in  his  pocket  and  trudged  on, 
deciding  he  would  smoke  the  affable  stranger's  cigar 
when  he  went  off  duty.  He  didn't,  however.  After 
straightening  out  certain  tangles  in  his  mind  and  ar- 
riving at  certain  conclusions,  Officer  McCloskey  re- 
solved to  keep  the  cigar  as  a  souvenir  of  the  occasion 
when  he  accommodated  the  Gray  Phantom  with  a 
match. 

Chuckling  at  the  happy  circumstances  that  some 
policemen  are  more  gullible  than  others,  the  Phan- 
tom hurried  forward  in  the  shadows  of  tall  brick 
buildings.  He  thought  he  had  left  the  zone  of  great- 
est danger  behind  him,  but  the  utmost  caution  was 
still  needed;  the  crucial  test  would  not  come  until 
he  reached  his  destination.  As  often  before,  he  was 
relying  for  success  and  safety  on  the  fact  that  he  was 
doing  the  very  thing  a  hunted  man  was  least  likely 
to  do. 

A  hansom  drawn  by  a  scraggy  nag  came  toward 
him  and  drew  up  at  the  curb  on  his  signal.  He  fixed 
an  appraising  look  on  the  driver,  a  despondent-look- 
ing individual  in  sadly  dilapidated  livery,  whose  sole 
concern  in  his  prospective  passenger  seemed  to  have 
to  do  with  the  collecting  of  a  generous  fare. 

"Drive  me  to  the  Sphere  office,''  directed  the 
Phantom,  satisfied  with  his  inspection  of  the  man  on 
the  box. 

He  climbe'd  iri,  and  a  crack  of  the  whip  startled 
the  nag  into  activity.  The  Phantom,  tingling  with  a 
familiar  sensation,  leaned  back  against  the  cushion 
and  watched  long  rows  of  somber  buildings  stream 
past.  He  was  bent  on  a  madcap  adventure,  and  the 
details  of  his  plan  were  still  vague,  but  if  the  scheme 
succeeded  he  would  have  gained  an  important  ad- 


118      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


vantage.  His  task,  besides  being  'difficult  and  'dan- 
gerous, was  also  somewhat  strange  to  him.  Many 
sensational  ventures  embellished  his  past,  but  he  had 
never  until  now  essayed  a  kidnaping,  at  least  not 
under  circumstances  like  these. 

The  vista  brightened.  A  short  'distance  ahead 
loomed  the  Municipal  Building  and  the  Woolworth 
Tower.  Serenely  the  cab  jogged  into  City  Hall 
Park,  carrying  its  passenger  into  a  brightly  lighted 
square  that  even  at  night  stirred  with  activity  and 
bristled  with  a  thousand  dangers.  The  hansom 
stopped,  and  the  Phantom  gazed  a  trifle  dubiously 
at  a  tall  building  from  which  issued  the  clatter  of 
linotype  machines  and  the  dull  rumble  of  presses. 

"Here  we  are,  sir,"  observed  the  jehu  expectantly, 
speaking  through  the  trap  over  the  passenger's  head. 

The  Phantom  did  not  move.  The  entrance  of  the 
Sphere  building  was  brightly  lighted  and  people  were 
constantly  passing  in  either  direction.  On  the  corner, 
keenly  scanning  the  face  of  each  passer-by,  stood  a 
lordly  policeman.  The  Phantom  counted  his 
chances,  knowing  that  much  more  than  his  personal 
freedom  was  at  stake.  The  mustache,  his  sole  dis- 
guise, seemed  inadequate.  He  might  be  recognized 
by  anyone  in  the  passing  throng  who  chanced  to 
give  him  a  second  glance,  and  he  would  face  another 
ticklish  situation  when  he  was  inside  the  building. 

"Didn't  you  say  the  Sphere }  sir?"  inquired  the: 
'driver. 

The  Phantom  was  about  to  reply  when  fate  un- 
expectedly stepped  in  and  solved  his  problem.  A 
few  vigorous  expressions  spoken  in  loud  and  boister- 
ous tones  drew  his  attention  to  the  doorway.  A 
gaudily  garbed  person  who  seemed  to  be  in  an  ad- 
vanced stage  of  inebriation  was  being  propelled 
through  the  door  by  a  stocky  man  with  a  reddish  and 


KIDNAPED 


119 


cietermine'd  face.  As  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
tipsy  individual's  features,  the  Phantom  started  and 
wedged  his  figure  into  the  farther  corner  of  the 
hansom. 

From  his  well-filled  wallet  he  took  a  bill  and  thrust 
it  through  the  trap.  The  jehu  took  it,  stared  for  a 
moment  at  the  numeral  in  the  corner,  which  was  im- 
posing enough  to  corrupt  stancher  souls  than  his, 
then  listened  attentively  to  the  instructions  his  fare 
was  giving  in  low  and  hurried  tones. 

"I  get  you,  sir,"  was  his  comment.  "Leave  it  to 
me." 

In  the  meantime  the  stout  person  had  given  the 
tipsy  one  a  final  departing  shove,  and  now  he  stood 
aside,  with  thumbs  crooked  in  the  armpits  of  his  vest, 
his  face  glowing  with  the  consciousness  of  a  job  well 
performed.  His  victim  picked  himself  up  with  great 
difficulty  and  looked  about  him  with  groggy  eyes 
while  loudly  proclaiming  how  he  would  avenge  the 
affront. 

"Cab,  sir?"  invitingly  inquired  the  jehu. 

The  inebriate  one  careened  forward,  blinked  his 
eyes  and,  with  head  wagging  limply  from  side  to 
side,  gave  the  hansom  a  slanting  look.  Evidently  it 
met  his  approval,  for  he  nodded  and  staggered 
closer.  The  driver  jumped  from  the  box  and  oblig- 
ingly assisted  his  new  fare  to  the  seat.  A  moment 
later  the  cab  was  clashing  away  from  the  curb,  fol- 
lowed by  the  amused  glances  of  several  spectators. 

The  tipsy  passenger,  sprawling  lumpishly  in  his 
seat,  rolled  a  little  to  one  side  as  the  conveyance 
turned  a  corner.  To  his  amazement  his  head  struck 
someone's  shoulder;  then  a  firm,  low  voice  spoke  in 
his  ear: 

"Tommie  Granger,  you're  just  the  person  I  have 
been  looking  for." 


CHAPTER  XIV 


THOMAS  GRANGER 

SLOWLY  and  with  difficulty  the  intoxicated  man 
straightened  himself  and  looked  unsteadily  at 
his  companion.   They  were  in  a  dark  street  and 
their  faces  were  indistinct. 

"Shay,"  demanded  the  tipsy  one,  "thish  ish  my 
cab.    Get  out!" 

"Now,  Granger,"  replied  the  Phantom  with  a  - 
chuckle,  "you  surely  'don't  mind  giving  a  fellow  a 
lift?    By  the  way,  where  do  you  think  you  are 
going?" 

"Home,  but  " 

"You  forgot  to  tell  the  'driver  your  address." 

"Dam'  the  driver!  He  ought  to  know  enough 
— hie — to  take  a  fellow  home  when  he's  soused. 
Where  elsh  would  I  be  going?  Huh?'* 

"But  your  address  " 

"Dam'  my  address!  It's  nobody'sh  business.  I 
live  where  I  please — see?  I'm  drunk.  I  get  drunk 
when — hie — whenever  I  feel  like  it.  Know  where 
to  get  the  sh-stuff,  too.  Alwaysh  carry  a  bottle  ort 
my  hip.    Want  a  drink?" 

"Never  touch  it.  Thanks,  just  the  same.  What 
was  the  matter  back  at  the  office?  They  were  treat- 
ing you  rather  roughly." 

Granger  seemed  to  recall  a  grievance.  He  macte 
an  effort  to  draw  himself  up.  "I  inshulted  the  city 
editor  and — hie — he  told  the  watchman  to  bounce 

120 


THOMAS  GRANGER 


121 


me.   I  alwaysh  inshult  people  when  I'm  soused.  Did 
I  ever  inshult  you?" 
"Not  yet,  Granger." 

"Maybe  I  will  shome  day.  Shay,  tell  the  cabby 
to  turn  back.  I  wanta  go  back  to  the  offish  and  clean 
out  that  bunch  of  stiffs." 

"Now,  Granger  " 

"Lemme  go!  I'll  show  'em  they  can't  treat  me 
that  way.  Lemme  go,  I  tell  you !  Hey,  cabby,  re- 
versh  the  current." 

Granger  sprang  from  the  seat,  lurched  against  the 
side  of  the  cab,  and  would  have  hurled  himself 
against  the  pavement  had  not  the  Phantom  jerked 
him  back.  The  drunken  man  lunged  out  with  arms 
and  legs,  but  he  subsided  quickly  as  he  felt  something 
hard  pressing  against  his  chest. 

"Cut  out  the  nonsense!"  The  Phantom  spoke 
firmly  and  incisively.  "I  have  you  covered,  and  I 
won't  stand  for  any  foolishness." 

The  touch  of  steel  against  his  ribs  seemed  to  have 
a  sobering  effect  on  Granger.  For  a  few  moments 
he  stared  sulkily  at  his  companion,  then  he  settled 
himself  against  the  cushion,  and  his  mind  appeared 
to  be  groping  its  way  out  of  stupefying  fumes.  The 
cab  was  pursuing  a  zigzagging  route  through 
crooked  and  dimly  lighted  streets,  the  jehu  having 
been  instructed  to  drive  at  random  until  he  received 
further  orders.  The  Phantom's  mind  worked 
quickly  while  he  pressed  the  pistol  against  his  cap- 
tive's chest.  A  new  problem  confronted  him.  He 
had  kidnaped  his  man,  but  where  was  he  to  take 
him?  The  logical  answer  was  Sea-Glimpse,  but  the 
trip  would  consume  too  much  time,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  risks  involved.  Doctor  Bimble's  house?  The 
Phantom  shook  his  head  even  as  the  idea  occurred 
to  him.    The  anthropologist  was  too  erratic  a  man 


\n      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


to  inspire  confidence,  and  the  Phantom  needed  some- 
one whom  he  could  trust  absolutely. 

Presently  he  felt  Granger's  eyes  on  his  face.  The 
cool  night  air,  together  with  the  steady  pressure  of 
the  pistol,  was  rapidly  driving  the  alcoholic  vapors 
from  the  reporter's  brain,  and  now  he  was  subjecting 
his  captor  to  a  blinking,  unsteady  scrutiny,  as  if  he 
were  just  beginning  to  suspect  that  something  was 
amiss. 

"Is  this  a  pinch?"  he  asked,  his  tones  still  a  trifle 
thick. 

The  Phantom  laughed.  "No,  Granger.  I'm  not 
an  officer.    Besides,  why  should  I  be  pinching  you?" 

"For  being  drunk  and  disorderly  and  carrying  a 
bottle  on  my  hip." 

"Those  heinous  crimes  don't  interest  me.  Any- 
how, I  understand  journalists  are  more  or  less  priv- 
ileged persons.  I  am  merely  taking  you  to  a  safe 
place,  where  you  won't  go  around  insulting  people 
and  getting  your  head  smashed." 

Granger  fell  into  a  moody  silence,  and  the  Phan- 
tom thought  he  detected  signs  of  a  growing  uneasi- 
ness about  his  captive.  Evidently  the  period  of  de- 
pression that  follows  artificial  stimulation  was  al- 
ready setting  in.  Because  of  the  darkness  and  his 
befuddled  state  of  mind,  the  reporter  had  not  yet 
recognized  the  man  at  his  side,  but  his  gaze  was 
taking  on  a  keener  edge  and  would  soon  penetrate 
the  thin  disguise  afforded  by  the  mustache.  The 
Phantom  felt  the  need  of  a  quick  decision. 

A  clock  struck  one.  In  scrupulous  obedience  to 
his  orders  the  jehu  was  urging  his  nag  over  the 
darkest  and  most  dismal  streets  he  could  find.  The 
Phantom  looked  out,  and  a  glance  at  a  corner  sign 
told  him  that  they  were  crossing  Mott  Street  and 
were  not  far  from  the  heart  of  old  Chinatown.  A 


THOMAS  GRANGER 


123 


recollection  flashed  through  his  mind,  and  in  its  wake 
came  an  idea. 

"Stop,"  he  called  through  the  trap.  The  hansom 
jolted  to  the  curb  and  halted.  The  street  was  silent 
and  the  sidewalks,  as  far  as  eyes  could  reach,  were 
deserted.  There  was  a  thin,  lazy  drizzle  in  the  air 
and  the  atmosphere  was  a  trifle  heavy. 

"Listen,  Granger,"  he  spoke  sharply.  "We  are 
getting  out  here,  but  I  intend  to  keep  you  covered 
every  instant.  The  slightest  sound  or  the  least  false 
move  will  cost  you  your  life.    Is  that  clear?" 

The  reporter's  response  was  surly,  but  the  Phan- 
tom knew  that  his  warning  had  had  the  effect  he 
desired.  Holding  the  pistol  with  one  hand,  he  took 
out  his  wallet  with  the  other  and  selected  a  bill. 
Then  he  stepped  down  on  the  curb,  ordering  the  re- 
porter to  follow. 

"Here,  cabby."  He  extended  the  bill,  which,  with 
the  other  the  Phantom  had  previously  given  him, 
was  surely  enough  to  make  the  jehu  forget  any  little 
irregularity  he  might  have  observed.  With  a  fervent 
"Thank  you,  sir,"  he  whipped  up  the  scrawny  nag 
and  drove  away. 

"Now,  Granger."  The  Phantom  spoke  in  low 
but  commanding  tones.  "My  life  depends  on  the 
success  of  this  little  undertaking.  I'll  shoot  you  the 
instant  you  show  the  least  intention  to  spoil  my  plan. 
Understand?" 

Granger  nodded,  seemingly  convinced  that  he  was 
dealing  with  a  desperate  man  and  that,  for  the  time 
at  least,  it  behooved  him  to  obey  orders  and  ask  no 
questions.  The  Phantom  wound  his  arm  about  the 
other's  back,  firmly  jabbing  the  muzzle  of  the  pistol 
against  the  fellow's  armpit,  thus  giving  the  appear- 
ance of  steadying  a  slightly  incapacitated  friend. 

They  approached  the  center  of  Chinatown,  keep- 


124      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


ing  in  the  shadows  whenever  possible.  Granger  was 
sullenly  silent,  and  he  seemed  to  be  hoping  and 
watching  for  a  sign  of  relaxing  vigilance  on  his  cap- 
tor's part.  The  Phantom  understood,  and  as  they 
left  the  shelter  of  darkness  and  turned  the  corner 
at  Pell  Street,  he  pressed  the  pistol  a  little  harder 
against  the  reporter's  armpit. 

A  slumberous  gloom  hung  over  the  district,  as  if 
the  famous  old  quarter  were  brooding  over  mem- 
ories of  a  lurid  past,  when  terror  stalked  in  subter- 
ranean crypts  and  strange  scenes  were  enacted  under 
cover  of  Oriental  splendor.  There  were  a  few  strag- 
glers in  the  streets  and  some  of  the  shops  and  res- 
taurants were  lighted;  but,  on  the  whole,  the  section 
presented  a  dull  and  lifeless  appearance.  The  Phan- 
tom scanned  the  signs  and  numbers  as  he  hurried 
along  with  his  captive,  keeping  the  latter  close  to 
his  side,  and  constantly  on  the  alert  against  lurking 
dangers. 

Finally  he  stopped  before  one  of  the  smaller  es- 
tablishments and,  after  descending  a  few  steps, 
knocked  on  the  basement  door.  Signs  painted  across 
the  window  in  Chinese  and  English  announced  that 
the  place  was  occupied  by  Peng  Yuen,  dealer  hi 
Oriental  goods.  Once,  years  ago,  while  the  district 
was  ripped  and  rocked  by  one  of  its  frequent  tong 
wars,  the  Phantom  had  chanced  to  do  Peng  Yuen 
a  great  favor,  and  the  Chinaman  had  sworn  undy- 
ing gratitude  and  promised  to  show  his  appreciation 
in  a  practical  way  if  the  opportunity  should  ever 
come.  A  strange  friendship  had  developed,  and 
Peng  Yuen,  though  wily  and  rascally  in  his  dealings 
with  others,  had  impressed  the  Phantom  as  a  man 
whom  he  could  safely  trust. 

The  front  of  the  store  was  Hark,  but  through  art 
open  door  in  the  rear  came  a  shaft  of  light.   As  he 


THOMAS  GRANGER 


125 


waited,  the  Phantom  threw  an  uneasy  giance  up  and 
down  the  street.  Luck  had  been  with  him  so  far, 
but  the  tension  was  beginning  to  tell  on  his  nerves. 

A  puny  figure  crossed  the  path  of  light,  then  the 
door  opened  a  few  inches,  and  the  two  arrivals  were 
given  a  keen,  slant-eyed  scrutiny.  The  Phantom 
knew  a  little  Chinese,  and  a  few  words  spoken  in 
that  tongue  had  a  magic  effect  on  the  man  inside. 
With  a  curious  obeisance,  he  drew  back  and  motioned 
them  to  enter.  The  Phantom,  pushing  his  quarry 
ahead  of  him  through  the  door,  spoke  a  few  more 
words  in  Chinese,  and  their  host  pointed  invitingly 
to  the  door  in  the  rear. 

The  three  entered,  and  Peng  Yuen,  arrayed  in 
straw-colored  garments  embroidered  with  black  bats, 
shot  the  bolt.  His  face  was  as  impassive  as  that  of 
the  image  of  Kuan-Yin  pu  tze  which  stood  on  a  shelf 
over  a  lacquered  teak-wood  cabinet,  and  he  was  so 
slight  of  stature  that  it  seemed  as  though  a  puff  of 
wind  would  have  blown  him  to  the  land  of  his  an- 
cestors. The  air  in  the  little  den  was  heavy  with 
scents  of  the  East. 

The  light,  filtering  through  shades  of  green  and 
rose,  gave  Granger  his  first  clear  view  of  the  Phan- 
tom's face.  With  a  start  he  fell  back  a  step  and 
stared  at  his  captor  out  of  gradually  widening  eyes. 
The  last  signs  of  stupor  fled  from  his  face,  and 
a  startled  cry  rose  in  his  throat  as  the  Phantom  smil- 
ingly snatched  the  false  mustache  from  his  lips. 

The  Chinaman,  standing  with  arms  folded  across 
his  chest,  viewed  the  scene  with  supreme  indifference. 
Granger  slowly  ran  his  hand  across  his  forehead,  as 
if  wondering  whether  his  senses  were  playing  him 
tricks.  His  lips  came  apart,  and  a  startled  gleam 
appeared  in  his  bleary,  heavy-lidded  eyes. 


126      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


"The — the  Gray  Phant6m!"  he  muttered  shakily, 
wetting  his  lips  and  falling  back  another  step. 

The  Phantom  looked  amused.  "Just  think  what 
a  scoop  you've  missed,  Granger."  He  turned  to  the 
Chinaman.  "Peng,  you  old  heathen,  I  guess  you 
know  they  are  accusing  me  of  murder?" 

"So?"  said  Peng  Yuen  in  his  slow,  precise  English. 
"I  did  not  know.    I  never  read  the  newspapers." 

"Then,  of  course,  you  are  not  aware  that  the 
police  are  conducting  a  lively  search  for  me?" 

"My  friend,"  said  the  Chinaman,  unimpressed, 
"I  have  told  you  that  I  do  not  read  the  papers." 

The  Phantom  searched  the  almond-shaped  eyes 
for  a  sign  of  a  twinkle,  but  found  none. 

"Peng  Yuen,  you  are  lying  like  a  gentleman.  It 
grieves  me  to  shatter  such  beautiful  ignorance,  but 
it  must  be  done.  I  did  not  commit  the  murder  of 
which  I  am  accused.  For  reasons  of  my  own  I 
desire  to  find  the  murderer  and  hand  him  over  to  the 
police.  I  am  seriously  handicapped  by  the  interest 
the  authorities  are  taking  in  me,  which  makes  it  un- 
safe for  me  to  move  a  single  step.  I  have  thought 
of  a  ruse  by  which  that  obstacle  may  be  removed.'1 

The  Chinaman  lifted  his  brows  inquiringly. 

"This  gentleman,"  continued  the  Phantom,  indi- 
cating the  inebriate,  "is  Mr.  Thomas  Granger, 
a  reporter  on  the  Sphere.  As  you  may  have  noticed, 
he  looks  something  like  me.  The  police,  deceived 
by  the  resemblance,  took  it  into  their  heads  to  arrest 
him.  He  was  able  to  give  a  satisfactory  account  o£ 
himself,  of  course,  and  his  finger  prints  quickly  con- 
vinced the  authorities  they  had  made  a  mistake. 
They  are  not  likely  to  make  that  kind  of  mistake 
a  second  time.    You  follow  me,  Peng  Yuen?" 

The  ghost  of  a  grin  flickered  across  the  China- 


THOMAS  GRANGER 


127 


man's  face.  "Your  words,  my  friend,  have  their 
roots  in  eternal  wisdom." 

"Thanks  for  that  kind  thought,  Peng  Yuen.  I 
knew  you  would  see  the  point.  Granger  has  seen  it, 
too,  though  his  mind  is  not  functioning  with  its  usual 
brilliance  to-night.  He  has  consented  to  disappear 
for  a  few  days  and  has  agreed  to  let  me  borrow  his 
identity  in  the  meantime.  As  the  Gray  Phantom 
I  can  scarcely  move  a  step.  In  the  role  of  Thomas 
Granger,  newspaper  reporter,  I  shall  be  able  to  move 
about  unmolested.  What,  Granger — not  backing 
out  of  the  bargain,  I  hope?" 

A  seemingly  careless  gesture  with  the  pistol,  to- 
gether with  a  warning  look,  quickly  silenced  the  pro- 
tests on  Granger's  lips.  After  a  few  moments  of 
fidgeting  and  indecision,  he  accepted  the  situation 
with  a  good-natured  grin,  as  if  its  humorous  side  had 
appealed  to  him. 

"Excellent !"  drawled  the  Phantom.  "I  knew  you 
would  be  reasonable.    Now  we  strip." 

He  handed  the  pistol  to  Peng  Yuen,  placed  his 
metal  case  on  the  table,  and  began  to  remove  his 
clothes.  Granger  followed  his  example,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  the  two  had  exchanged  garments.  The 
reporter  was  addicted  to  vivid  hues  and  extreme  de- 
signs. At  first  the  Phantom  felt  a  trifle  uncomfort- 
able in  the  strange  garb,  but  he  knew  it  was  neces- 
sary to  the  role  he  was  assuming.  He  studied  the 
reporter  carefully  while  he  took  a  number  of  tubes 
and  vials  from  his  case.  Granger  was  a  younger 
man,  his  eyes  were  of  a  slightly  different  hue  from 
the  Phantom's,  and  there  were  other  differences 
which  were  easily  discernible  to  the  keen  eye. 

The  Phantom,  viewing  himself  in  a  cheval  glass, 
Saubed  a  dark  tint  over  the  gray  at  his  temples. 


128      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


With  an  occasional  backward  glance  at  the  reporter, 
he  dappled  his  cheeks  with  a  faintly  chromatic 
powder,  traced  a  tiny  line  on  each  side  of  the  mouth, 
poured  a  little  oil  on  his  hair  and  patted  it  till  it 
lay  smooth  and  sleek  against  his  head,  performing 
each  touch  with  such  a  delicate  skill  that,  though 
the  resemblance  was  greatly  enhanced,  there  was 
scarcely  a  suggestion  of  make-up. 

"What  do  you  think,  Peng  Yuen?"  he  inquired, 
turning  from  the  cheval  glass. 

A  look  of  admiration  came  into  the  Chinaman's 
usually  woodenlike  face.  Even  the  voice  was  Gran- 
ger's. The  expression  around  the  mouth  and  the 
eyes  and  the  characteristic  set  of  the  shoulders  were 
adroitly  imitated,  and  already  the  Phantom  had 
picked  up  several  of  the  reporter's  mannerisms. 

"It  is  good,"  murmured  Peng  Yuen,  putting  the 
maximum  of  approval  into  the  minimum  of  wrords. 

The  Phantom  was  beginning  to  show  signs  of  rest- 
lessness. He  glanced  at  his  wratch,  then  fixed  the; 
Chinaman  with  a  penetrating  look. 

"Peng  Yuen,"  he  said,  "in  the  good  old  days  there 
were  hiding  places  on  these  premises  where  people 
could  disappear." 

"It  may  be  so."  The  Chinaman's  face  was  ex- 
pressionless.   "I  do  not  recollect." 

But  even  as  he  spoke,  a  touch  of  his  fingers  pro- 
duced an  opening  in  the  wall.  The  Phantom  mo- 
tioned, and  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  the  re- 
porter stepped  through  the  aperture.  A  moment 
later  a  sliding  panel  had  shut  him  from  view. 

"The  Phantom  has  disappeared,"  mumbled  the 
Chinaman.  "Except  wThen  I  bring  him  food  and 
drink,  I  will  forget  that  he  exists.  Going  so  soon, 
Mr.  Granger?" 


THOMAS  GRANGER 


129 


The  bogus  journalist  grinned  as  he  gripped  Peng 
Yuen's  thin,  weazened  hand.  He  squeezed  it  until 
the  Chinaman  winced,  then  hurried  out  into  the 
'dark,  dripping  night,  turning  his  steps  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  house  on  East  Houston  Street. 


CHAPTER  XV 


A  WARNING  FROM  THE  DUKE 

THE  Phantom  walked  briskly,  with  an  easy, 
carefree  swagger,  breathing  freely  for  the  first 
time  since  the  beginning  of  the  strange  events 
that  had  attended  his  efforts  to  solve  the  mystery  of 
the  Gage  murder.  In  the  role  of  an  irresponsible 
journalist  with  a  weakness  for  strong  liquor  he  could 
feel  reasonably  secure,  for  the  police  had  been  so 
cruelly  nagged  and  ridiculed  that  they  would  think 
twice  before  repeating  their  sad  blunder. 

"Stop!"  commanded  a  voice  as  he  swung  into 
Houston  Street.  The  Phantom  halted  and  smiled 
impudently  into  the  face  of  a  plain-clothes  man  who 
emerged  from  a  dark  doorway  to  look  him  over. 

"Oh,  Granger,"  muttered  the  officer  disgustedly 
after  a  glance  at  his  showy  attire  and  a  sniff  of  the 
whisky  with  which  the  Phantom,  making  use  of  the 
reporter's  bottle,  had  prudently  scented  himself. 
"Sober  for  a  change,  I  see.  Where  do  you  get  the 
stuff,  anyhow?" 

"That  would  be  telling.  Any  news  of  the  Phan- 
tom?" 

"Naw!  We  thought  we  had  him  a  while  ago, 
over  at  a  Third  Avenue  L  station,  but  he  blew 
away.  I  s'pose  you're  out  to  nab  him  and  get  a 
scoop  for  that  yellow  rag  of  yours." 

"Maybe,"   said  the  Phantom  cheerfully.  "It 

130 


A  WARNING  FROM  THE  DUKE  131 


would  be  quite  an  event  in  my  young  life.  I'll  be  on 
my  way,  if  you're  sure  you  don't  want  to  take  me 
to  headquarters  and  get  another  sample  of  my 
finger  prints." 

uAw — beat  it!"  muttered  the  detective,  touched 
in  a  sore  spot.  The  Phantom  chuckled  and  moved 
on.  His  new  role  promised  to  be  amusing  as  well  as 
profitable,  and  the  ease  with  which  he  had  passed 
the  first  test  gave  him  added  confidence.  Twice 
within  the  next  fifteen  minutes  he  was  stopped  and 
questioned,  only  to  be  dismissed  with  a  disgusted 
grunt  or  a  facetious  remark. 

As  he  crossed  the  Bowery  a  stocky  figure  in  patrol- 
man's uniform  appeared  around  the  corner  and 
moved  down  the  street  a  few  paces  ahead  of  him. 
After  studying  his  gait  and  bearing  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, the  Phantom  knew  it  was  Officer  Pinto.  He 
slackened  his  pace  and  followed,  stepping  softly  so 
as  not  to  attract  the  policeman's  attention. 

Pinto's  steps  faltered  as  he  approached  the  mid- 
dle of  the  block,  and  he  walked  with  a  shuffling  and 
uncertain  air.  Finally  he  stopped,  and  the  Phantom 
thought  he  was  gazing  at  a  window  directly  in  front 
of  him.  He  tiptoed  a  little  closer,  and  now  he  saw 
that  the  building  on  which  the  officer's  attention  was 
fixed  so  intently  was  none  other  than  the  murky  and 
silent  structure  that  had  been  occupied  by  Gage  and 
his  housekeeper. 

The  policeman  "drew  a  little  closer  to  the  window, 
then  stood  rigid  and  motionless,  as  if  the  building 
were  exerting  a  peculiar  fascination  upon  him.  At 
that  moment  the  Phantom  would  have  given  a  great 
deal  to  know  what  was  going  on  in  the  mind  of  the 
man  he  was  watching.  He  could  make  a  guess,  but 
guesses  were  unsatisfactory.  At  length  the  officer 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  if  to  shake  off  something 


132      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


that  oppressed  him,  then  tried  the  lock  In  matter-of- 
fact  fashion  and  moved  on  down  the  street. 

The  Phantom  hastened  after  him.  He  was  no 
longer  trying  to  avoid  detection,  and  his  footfalls 
sounded  clear  and  sharp  in  the  quiet  street.  The 
policeman  stopped,  looked  back,  and  peered  sharply 
at  the  oncomer. 

"Granger — huh!"  he  snorted  after  giving  the 
Phantom  a  derisive  once-over.  4 'Say,  does  your  ma 
know  you're  out  as  late  as  this?  Getting  all  them 
glad  rags  mussed  up  in  the  rain,  too!  What's  the 
idea?" 

"The  Phantom  has  got  my  goat,"  confessed  the 
pseudo  reporter.  "It  isn't  natural  for  a  man  to  pop 
in  and  out  the  way  he  does  without  getting  caught." 

"Well,  what  are  -you  going  to  do  about  it?" 
grumbled  the  patrolman,  resuming  his  walk. 

The  Phantom  fell  into  step  beside  him,  now  and 
then  casting  a  sidelong  glance  at  his  sour  and  un- 
communicative face.  All  of  a  sudden  he  wondered 
whether  the  policeman  was  aware  that  a  second 
murder  had  been  committed  in  the  Gage  house,  and 
again  it  struck  him  as  bafflingly  strange  that  no  men- 
tion had  been  made  of  the  finding  of  the  house- 
keeper's body.  What  had  become  of  it,  and  how 
much,  if  anything,  did  Pinto  know? 

"Something  seems  to  be  eating  you,"  he  observed 
casually,  trying  to  adopt  a  phraseology  suited  to  his 
role.  "You  were  staring  at  that  window  as  if  you 
expected  old  Gage's  ghost  to  take  a  stroll.  What 
were  you  thinking  of,  Pinto?" 

The  policeman  gave  a  quick,  searching  look. 
"Say,  you've  been  watching  me,  ain't  you?  What's 
the  big  idea?   And  how  do  you  know  my  name?" 

The  Phantom  laughed  engagingly.  "How  touchy 
we  are  to-night!    I  wasn't  watching  you,  exactly. 


A  WARNING  FROM  THE  DUKE  133 


Just  strolling  along,  hoping  to  bump  into  the  Phan- 
tom and  cover  myself  with  glory.  Then  I  saw  you, 
and  I  couldn't  imagine  what  you  were  seeing  in  that 
window.  As  for  knowing  your  name,  I  happen  to 
be  aware  that  the  officer  on  this  beat  is  one  Joshua 
Pinto  and  that  he  was  called  by  the  housekeeper  the 
night  Gage  was  murdered.'' 

The  patrolman,  evidently  satisfied  with  the  ex- 
planation, mumbled  something  under  his  breath. 

"But  you  haven't  answered  my  question,"  per- 
sisted the  Phantom,  speaking  in  gently  teasing  tones. 
UI  am  still  wondering  what  you  were  thinking  of 
while  standing  in  front  of  the  window." 

uWhy,  I  was — just  thinking,  that's  all." 

"How  illuminating!  I  wonder  if,  by  any  chance, 
your  profound  meditations  had  anything  to  do  with 
the  present  whereabouts  of  Mrs.  Mary  Trippe, 
Gage's  housekeeper." 

The  patrolman  came  to  a  dead  stop.  Of  a  sudden 
his  face  turned  almost  white  and  his  eyes  grew  wider 
and  wider  as  they  stared  into  the  questioner's  face. 

"What  —  what  d'you  mean?"  he  demanded 
thickly. 

The  Phantom  laughed  easily.  "Why,  Pinto, 
you're  the  scaredest  cop  I  ever  saw.  Your  nerves 
must  be  in  a  bad  way.  I  was  only  wondering  if 
you've  seen  anything  of  Mrs.  Trippe  lately." 

"My  nerves  are  a  bit  jumpy,"  admitted  Pinto. 
He  was  moving  again,  but  there  was  evidence  of 
weakness  in  the  region  of  his  knees.  "They've  been: 
that  way  ever  since  I  had  a  touch  of  indigestion  last 
month.  What  was  it  you  asked  me  about  Mrs. 
Trippe?" 

"I  walked  over  there  yesterday  afternoon,  mean- 
ing to  ask  her  a  question  or  two  in  connection  witK 
the  murder.    I  couldn't  find  her,  and  the  neighbors 


134      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


said  they  hadn't  seen  her  for  a  day  or  two.  Got 
any  idea  where  she  is?" 

"No,  I  haven't."  Pinto  was  speaking  in  calmer 
tones  now.  "Likely  as  not  she's  visiting  friends  or 
relatives  somewhere.  Wimmen  don't  like  to  stay 
in  a  place  where  there's  been  a  murder." 

"Something  in  that.  By  the  way,  Pinto,  when 
were  you  last  inside  the  house?" 

Again,  for  a  mere  instant,  the  patrolman's  steps 
faltered.  He  threw  the  man  at  his  side  an  uneasy 
glance.  "Why,  let  me  see.  It  was  the  day  1  had 
the  Phantom  locked  up  in  the  bedroom  and  he  gave 
me  the  slip.   Why  did  you  want  to  know?" 

"No  reason  in  particular.  I  was  just  thinking 
that —  But  my  mind's  wandering.  Got  a  bit  tanked 
early  in  the  evening.  Guess  I'll  turn  in.  See  you 
later." 

With  a  yawn,  he  turned  back,  fancying  there  was 
a  note  of  relief  in  the  policeman's  farewell.  He 
smiled  as  he  walked  along.  His  conversation  with 
Pinto  had  cleared  up  one  point  in  his  mind.  The 
officer  knew  something  of  Mrs.  Trippe's  fate.  The 
'dread  he  had  evinced  at  mention  of  the  housekeeper's 
name  proved  that,  and  his  prevarications  and  eva- 
sions were  further  evidence.  The  plea  of  indigestion 
and  nervousness,  coming  from  one  of  Pinto's  robust 
physique,  was  highly  amusing. 

Yet,  illuminating  as  his  verbal  fencing  match  with 
the  patrolman  had  been,  it  had  merely  confirmed 
suspicions  already  firmly  rooted  in  the  Phantom's 
mind.  As  yet  he  had  not  a  single  iota  of  concrete 
[evidence,  and  there  were  several  snarled  threads  that 
had  to  be  untangled  before  he  could  accomplish 
much.  For  instance,  there  was  the  mystery  sur- 
rounding the  murder  of  Mrs.  Trippe  and  the  equally 
perplexing  riddle  of  what  had  become  of  the  body. 


A  WARNING  FROM  THE  DUKE  135 


Both  of  them  must  be  solved  before  he  could  go  far 
toward  attaining  his  object. 

He  stopped,  noticing  that  his  mental  processes  had 
guided  his  steps  toward  the  Gage  house.  It  was  still 
drizzling,  and  he  was  tired  and  hungry  and  wet,  but 
the  problem  on  which  he  was  engaged  drove  all 
thought  of  rest  and  food  from  his  mind.  The  black- 
ness overhead  was  slowly  breaking  into  a  leaden 
gray,  and  from  all  directions  came  sounds  of  awak- 
ening life.  He  walked  up  to  the  door,  believing  that 
the  answers  to  the  questions  that  troubled  him  were 
to  be  found  inside  the  house. 

Then,  out  of  the  shadows,  as  it  seemed  to  him, 
came  an  undersized  creature  with  a  slouching  gait 
and  glittering  cat's  eyes  peering  out  from  beneath1 
the  wide  brim  of  a  soft  hat.  The  Phantom  felt  a 
slight  touch  on  his  elbow,  and  for  an  instant  the 
sharply  gleaming  eyes  scanned  his  face,  then  the 
queer-looking  character  shuffled  away  as  swiftly  and 
silently  as  he  had  appeared. 

The  Phantom  was  tempted  to  follow,  but  just  then 
he  noticed  that  a  piece  of  paper  was  cramped  be- 
tween his  fingers.  He  unfolded  it  and  examined  it 
in  the  meager  light.  All  he  could  see  at  first  was 
something  crude  and  shapeless  sketched  with  pencil, 
but  gradually  the  blur  dissolved  into  a  symbol  which 
he  recognized. 

It  was  a  ducal  coronet.  The  Phantom  smiled  as 
he  looked  down  at  the  emblem  of  his  old  rival  and 
[enemy,  the  Duke.  The  paper  handed  him  by  the 
curious  messenger  was  a  reminder  that  the  hand  of 
his  antagonist  was  reaching  out  for  him,  that  though 
the  Duke  himself  was  in  prison,  his  henchmen  and 
agents  were  active,  being  at  this  very  moment  on  the 
Phantom's  trail. 

He  put  the  paper  into  his  pocket,  and  in  the  same 


136      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


moment  the  amused  smile  faded  from  his  lips.  For 
a  time  he  had  forgotten  that,  to  all  practical  pur- 
poses, he  was  no  longer  the  Gray  Phantom,  but  one 
Thomas  Granger,  journalist.  His  lips  tightened  as 
again  he  gazed  at  the  tracings  on  the  paper.  Did  it 
mean  that  the  Duke's  emissaries  had  seen  through 
his  disguise  and  alias,  or  did  it  mean — his  figure  stif- 
fened as  the  latter  question  flashed  in  his  mind — that 
Thomas  Granger  was  a  member  of  the  Duke's  band? 

In  vain  he  pondered  the  problem,  unable  to  decide 
whether  the  paper  had  been  intended  for  himself 
or  for  Granger.  If  for  himself,  it  seemed  a  some- 
what idle  and  meaningless  gesture  on  the  Duke's 
part,  for  his  old  enemy  surely  could  gain  nothing  by 
sending  cryptic  messages  to  him.  On  the  other  hand, 
assuming  that  the  reporter  was  the  intended  recip- 
ient, what  hidden  meaning  was  Granger  supposed  to 
read  into  a  ducal  coronet? 

He  tried  to  dismiss  the  problem  from  his  mind 
until  he  could  have  a  talk  with  Granger,  but  thoughts 
of  the  mysterious  message  and  the  strange  messenger 
pursued  him  as  he  once  more  turned  to  the  door. 
The  entrance  to  the  store  was  padlocked,  but  the 
lock  on  the  side  door  vielded  readily  to  manipulation 
with  one  of  the  tools  in  his  metal  case.  A  quick 
glance  to  left  and  right  assured  him  he  was  unob- 
served. Closing  the  door  and  taking  out  his  electric 
flash,  which  he  had  transferred  among  other  things 
to  the  suit  he  was  now  wearing,  he  ran  up  the  steep 
and  creaking  stairs. 

He  stood  in  a  long  and  narrow  hall.  At  one  end 
was  a  stairway,  presumably  leading  to  the  store 
below,  and  along  the  sides  of  the  corridor  were  three 
doors.  Opening  one  of  them,  he  played  the  electric 
beam  over  the  interior,  for  he  did  not  think  it  safe 
to  turn  on  the  light.    It  was  a  small,  tidily  furnished 


A  WARNING  FROM  THE  DUKE  137 


bedroom,  and  the  prevalence  of  feminine  touches 
hinted  that  it  had  been  occupied  by  the  housekeeper. 
In  the  neatness  and  immaculateness  of  things  there 
was  not  the  slightest  suggestion  of  tragedy,  and  he 
looked  in  vain  for  a  sign  that  the  occupant  had  been 
snatched  from  a  humdrum  life  to  a  horrible  death. 

Yet,  as  his  eyes  flitted  over  the  room,  he  felt  a 
vague  and  haunting  sense  of  oppression.  It  must  be 
the  air,  he  thought,  which  was  heavy  and  stale,  as 
if  the  window  had  not  been  opened  for  several  days. 
The  note  handed  him  by  the  queer  messenger  was 
still  a  disturbing  factor  in  his  thoughts,  and  he  took 
it  from  his  pocket  and  examined  it  in  the  light  of  his 
flash. 

At  first  he  saw  nothing  but  the  crude  pencil  trac- 
ings in  which  he  recognized  the  emblem  of  the  Duke, 
but  presently,  as  he  gave  closer  attention  to  the  out- 
lines of  the  design,  he  detected  tiny  waves  and  jags 
that  impressed  him  as  being  there  for  a  purpose.  He 
placed  his  magnifying  lens  between  the  electric  flash 
and  the  paper,  and  now  the  uneven  strokes  dissolved 
into  uncouth  but  fairly  legible  letters.  He  chuckled 
as  he  perceived  that  the  Duke,  always  a  lover  of  the 
theatrical,  was  in  the  habit  of  communicating  with 
his  agents  by  means  of  writing  that  had  to  be  read 
through  a  magnifying  lens. 

Quickly  he  deciphered  the  script  hidden  in  the 
ornate  tracings.  His  face  grew  hard  as  a  welter  of 
ideas  and  suspicions  surged  through  his  mind.  The 
message  read: 

Traitors  sometimes  die.    Report  at  once. 

The  six  words  seemed  to  throb  with  a  sinister 
meaning.  They  started  a  long  train  of  thoughts  in 
the  Phantom's  mind.    For  one  thing,  they  proved 


138      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


that  the  message  was  intended  for  Granger,  since 
there  was  no  reason  why  the  Duke  should  accuse  the 
Gray  Phantom  of  treachery.  They  also  made  it 
clear  that  the  reporter  was  a  member  of  the  Duke's 
new  organization  and  that  by  some  faithless  act  he 
had  incurred  the  displeasure  o£  the  leaders  of  the 
band. 

The  Phantom  loathed  a  traitor,  but  the  Duke  him- 
self was  no  stickler  for  fair  methods,  and  that  a 
member  of  his  gang  should  have  been  caught  in  a 
perfidious  act  was  not  particularly  surprising.  As 
the  Phantom  saw  it,  the  chief  importance  of  his  dis- 
covery lay  in  the  fact  that  he  was  still  laboring  under 
a  serious  handicap.  He  had  thought  that  in  assum- 
ing the  guise  of  a  newspaper  reporter  he  would  in- 
sure himself  against  molestation  from  all  sides,  but 
now  it  appeared  that  the  man  whose  identity  he  had 
borrowed  was  an  object  of  suspicion  and  possible 
vengeance.  The  threat  in  the  first  sentence  of  the 
message  was  clear  and  to  the  point. 

He  scowled  darkly  at  the  message,  then  folded  it 
carefully  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  He  still  had  an 
advantage,  he  told  himself,  for  he  was  safe  so  far 
as  the  police  were  concerned.  What  he  had  to  guard 
against  was  the  stealthy  machinations  and  intrigues 
of  the  Duke's  band.  On  the  whole,  it  was  fortunate 
that  the  note  had  fallen  into  his  possession,  for  fore- 
warned was  forearmed.  Increased  alertness  and  a 
few  extra  precautions  would  see  him  clear  of  the 
pitfalls. 

Extinguishing  his  flash,  he  left  the  room  and  de- 
scended the  stairs  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  emerging 
behind  the  counter  in  the  front  of  the  store.  He 
walked  down  the  narrow  aisle  between  the  show  case 
and  the  shelves  that  lined  the  wall.  The  door  to 
Gage's  bedroom  was  unlocked,  and  he  entered.  A 


A  WARNING  FROM  THE  DUKE  139 


shaft  of  gray  light  slanting  in  beneath  the  window 
shade  gave  blurry  outlines  to  the  objects  in  the  room. 
He  passed  to  the  window  and  pulled  the  curtain 
aside.  It  was  a  dull,  bleak  dawn,  as  dismal  and 
gray  as  the  one  that  had  greeted  him  twenty-four 
hours  ago  when  he  crawled  out  of  the  tunnel. 

His  inspection  of  the  room  shed  not  the  faintest 
ray  of  light  on  the  questions  in  his  mind.  He 
searched  carefully,  sweeping  the  dark  corners  with 
his  flash,  but  nothing  appeared  to  have  been  touched 
since  his  last  visit.  Of  the  tragedy  he  had  witnessed, 
not  the  slightest  sign  was  to  be  found.  Yet  the  scene 
was  so  vividly  impressed  on  his  mind  that  he  felt  as 
though  the  very  walls  were  alive  with  the  echoes  of 
the  dying  woman's  groans.  He  could  still  see  the 
quickly  moving  hand  that  had  held  the  knife. 

"Whose  hand?"  he  asked.  It  had  been  a  mere 
flash,  and,  as  far  as  he  could  recall,  there  had  been 
nothing  distinctive  about  it.  It  was  not  likely  he 
would  recognize  the  hand  if  he  should  see  it  a  second 
time;  yet  the  question  was  already  settled  in  his 
mind.  The  housekeeper  herself  had  given  him  the 
answer  to  it  in  the  few  words  she  had  gasped  out 
just  before  the  blow  was  struck: 

"He's  killing  me !    He's  afraid  I'll  tell !" 

She  had  referred  to  Pinto,  of  course,  for  her  pre- 
vious words  and  looks,  the  Gray  Phantom  thought, 
had  clearly  shown  that  she  suspected  the  policeman 
of  having  murdered  her  employer.  It  was  a  safe  in- 
ference, then,  that  Pinto  had  slain  the  housekeeper 
in  order  to  seal  her  lips  forever,  and  the  Phantom 
wondered  whether  the  patrolman  was  not  also  re- 
sponsible for  the  barricade  at  the  end  of  the  tunnel. 
It  seemed  plausible  enough.  Pinto  must  have  known 
that  there  had  been  a  witness  to  his  deed,  though  he 
probably  did  not  know  that  this  witness  had  seen 


140      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


only  a  Hand  and  a  knife.  It  was  even  possible  that 
the  policeman  had  seen  more  of  the  Phantom  than 
the  Phantom  had  seen  of  him.  At  any  rate,  he  was 
doubtless  aware  that  the  housekeeper's  words  had 
been  addressed  to  someone  hidden  in  the  opening 
back  of  the  revolving  frame.  Fearing  that  this 
person  would  betray  him,  he  had  quickly  slammed 
the  frame  into  place,  after  which  he  had  run  around 
to  Doctor  Bimble's  cellar  and  blocked  the  mouth  of 
the  passage,  intending  that  the  witness  to  his  crime 
should  smother  to  death. 

So  much  seemed  clear;  at  least  it  furnisheH  a 
hypothesis  in  the  light  of  which  the  strange  events 
of  the  night  before  were  explainable.  The  only 
puzzling  factor  in  the  situation  was  the  disappear- 
ance of  the  body.  The  Phantom,  cudgel  his  wits  as 
he  might,  could  see  no  other  solution  than  that  the 
murderer  must  have  removed  it.  No  one  else  would 
have  been  likely  to  'do  so.  If  the  body  had  been 
found  by  anyone  else  the  matter  would  have  been 
promptly  reported  to  the  police,  and  without  doubt 
another  crime  would  have  been  chalked  up  against 
the  Gray  Phantom.  Scanning  the  mystery  from 
every  angle,  the  Phantom  could  see  no  other  ex- 
planation than  that  the  body  had  been  concealed  by 
the  murderer. 

uBut  why?"  he  asked  himself.  So  far  as  He  could 
see,  the  murderer  could  have  had  no  reason  for  cov- 
ering up  the  crime,  which  in  the  absence  of  contrary 
proof  would  have  been  imputed  to  the  Gray  Phan- 
tom. The  police  and  the  press  would  have  jumped 
instantly  to  the  conclusion  that  the  arch-rogue  had 
followed  up  the  killing  of  Gage  with  the  murder  of 
the  housekeeper,  and  their  fertile  brains  could  easily 
have  invented  several  plausible  motives.  This,  to 
all  appearances,  would  have  suited  the  murderer  to 


A  WARNING  FROM  THE  DUKE  141 


perfection.  Why,  then,  had  he  gone  out  of  his  way 
to  keep  the  crime  secret? 

The  Phantom's  mind  churned  the  problem  for  sev- 
eral minutes  before  the  answer  came  to  him.  As  is 
often  the  case,  it  was  so  ludicrously  simple  that  he 
wondered  why  he  had  not  seen  it  at  once. 

"Clear  as  daylight!"  he  decided.  "The  murderer 
knew  the  crime  couldn't  be  fastened  on  me,  because 
I  had  an  alibi.  I  was  in  jail,  so  to  speak,  when  the 
murder  was  committed.  Of  course,  I  was  in  jail  only 
by  proxy,  the  real  prisoner  being  Tommie  Granger, 
but  the  murderer  didn't  know  that  until  later.  He 
thought  I  was  locked  up,  and  that  was  enough  for 
him." 

The  Phantom  backed  out  of  the  room.  His  visit 
to  the  scene  of  the  two  murders  had  helped  him  to 
clarify  certain  problems,  but  he  had  accomplished 
nothing  definite.  His  suspicions  in  regard  to  Pinto 
had  become  stronger,  but  as  yet  he  had  not  a  shred 
of  actual  proof  against  the  man.  He  considered 
what  his  next  step  should  be  as  he  walked  across 
the  store  and  started  up  the  stairs.  For  several 
reasons,  he  decided,  he  must  have  a  talk  with  Thomas 
Granger  at  once. 

He  paused  for  an  instant  outside  the  house- 
keeper's bedroom,  then  walked  on  to  the  next  door, 
which  opened  into  a  kitchen.  The  third  door,  the 
one  farthest  down  the  hall,  gave  access  to  a  large 
room,  and  the  tall  tiers  of  boxes  and  packing  cases 
indicated  that  Gage  had  used  it  for  storage  purposes. 
'Abstractedly  he  let  the  gleam  of  his  electric  flash 
glide  over  the  floor  and  the  long,  jagged  cracks  in 
the  begrimed  ceiling.  He  was  looking  for  nothing 
in  particular,  and  apparently  there  was  nothing  to 
'find. 

Yet,  as  he  started  to  walk  out,  something  held 


142      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


him.  He  could  not  analyze  the  sensation  at  first,  but 
it  was  one  he  had  experienced  before,  and  it  was 
associated  in  his  mind  with  dreadful  and  awe-in- 
spiring things.  He  could  not  name  it,  but  it  gave 
him  the  impression  that  he  stood  in  the  presence  of 
death. 

He  started  forward,  but  of  a  sudden  he  checke'd 
himself  and  listened  intentiy  to  sounds  coming  from 
the  direction  of  the  stairs.  They  were  short,  creak- 
ing, and  irregular  sounds,  like  those  produced  by  a 
heavy  man  when  he  tries  to  walk  lightly,  and  they 
gave  the  Phantom  an  impression  of  hesitancy  and 
furtiveness. 

The  stealthy  footfalls  drew  nearer.  Quietly  the 
Phantom  pushed  the  door  shut,  took  the  pistol  from 
his  pocket,  and  stepped  behind  a  row  of  packing 
cases.  The  footsteps  were  now  almost  at  the  door. 
An  interval  of  silence  came,  as  if  the  person  outside 
were  hesitating  before  he  entered,  then  the  door 
came  open  and  a  dark  shape  prowled  across  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


THE  OTHER  LINK 

THE  room  was  in  total  darkness  save  for  a  tiny 
sliver  of  light  filtering  in  through  a  crack  be- 
tween the  packing  cases  stacked  against  the 
window.  The  prowler  advanced  gropingly  after 
closing  the  door  behind  him,  and  from  time  to  time 
he  cleared  his  throat  with  little  rasping  sounds,  as 
some  persons  do  when  laboring  under  intense  excite- 
ment. 

The  Phantom,  wedged  in  a  narrow  opening  be- 
tween two  rows  of  boxes,  presendy  heard  a  faint 
scraping,  as  if  the  intruder  were  passing  his  hand 
back  and  forth  in  search  of  a  light  switch.  All  he 
could  see  was  a  shadow  moving  hither  and  thither 
in  the  gloom,  but  the  prowler's  quick  breathing  and 
jerky  footsteps  told  that,  whatever  might  be  his 
errand,  he  was  going  about  it  in  a  state  of  great 
trepidation. 

A  sudden  flash  of  light  caused  the  Phantom  to 
press  hard  against  the  wall,  for  he  wished  to  ascer- 
tain the  other's  business  before  making  his  presence 
known.  He  judged  from  the  sounds  made  by  the 
prowler  that  he  must  be  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 
room,  and  a  succession  of  loud,  creaking  noises  indi- 
cated that  he  was  dragging  some  of  the  cases  away 
'from  the  wall.  After  a  little  the  sounds  ceased  and 
the  only  audible  thing  was  the  prowler's  hard  pant- 

143 


144      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


ing,  mingling  now  and  then  with  a  low,  hoarse 
mutter. 

The  Phantom  stood  very  still.  A  curious  feeling 
was  stealing  over  him.  It  was  the  same  weird  and 
oppressive  sensation  he  had  experienced  shortly  after 
entering  the  room,  but  now  it  was  more  pronounced, 
filling  him  with  a  sense  of  awe  which  he  could  not 
understand. 

The  prowler's  footfalls,  moving  toward  the  door, 
broke  the  spell.  The  Phantom,  casting  off  the  un- 
comfortable sensation  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders, 
stepped  out  from  his  hiding  place  just  as  a  hand 
gripped  the  doorknob. 

"Hello,  Pinto!"  He  spoke  in  a  drawl,  toying 
carelessly  with  his  pistol.  Out  of  the  corner  of  an 
£ye  he  slanted  a  look  at  an  object  lying  on  the  floor. 
It  had  not  been  there  when  he  entered. 

The  patrolman's  face  had  been  white  even  before^ 
he  spoke;  now  it  was  ashen  and  ghastly.  His  eyes, 
wide  with  horror,  bored  into  the  Phantom's  face. 
Several  times  he  moistened  his  twitching  lips  before 
he  was  able  to  speak. 

"Where  did  you  co — come  from?"  he  gasped. 

"Why,  nowhere  in  particular.  Just  taking  a  walk. 
Changed  my  mind  about  going  home.  But  don't 
look  at  me  as  if  I  was  a  ghost.  Makes  me  nervous. 
Great  heavens,  what's  this?" 

He  started  at  the  grewsome  heap  on  the  floor  as  if 
he  had  just  now  chanced  to  cast  eye  upon  it.  Pinto 
made  a  heroic  effort  to  steady  himself.  His  quaver- 
ing gaze  moved  reluctantly  toward  the  motionless 
form  lying  a  few  feet  from  where  he  stood. 

"That's — that's  Mrs.  Trippe,"  he  announced, 
twisting  his  head  and  working  his  Adam's  apple  as 
if  on  the  point  of  choking. 

"So  I  see."    The  Phantom  stepped  closer  to  the! 


THE  OTHER  LINK 


145 


body,  regarded  it  gravely  for  a  few  moments,  then 
lifted  his  narrowing  gaze  to  the  policeman's  twitch- 
ing face.    "Where  did  it  come  from,  Pinto?" 

The  officer  was  gradually  gaining  control  of  him- 
self. He  took  out  his  handkerchief  and  mopped  his 
perspiring  forehead.  "Awful  sight — ain't  it,  Gran- 
ger? I  thought  I  heard  some  kind  of  racket  just  as 
I  was  passing  the  house.  I  tried  the  doors,  and  the 
one  at  the  side  was  unlocked.  I  thought  it  was 
queer,  for  I  had  made  sure  it  was  locked  when  I 
passed  the  other  time,  so  I  ran  up  the  stairs  and 
looked  around.  When  I  came  in  here  and  turned 
on  the  light,  I  found  that  thing  lying  there.  It  broke 
me  all  up.  Fine  scoop  for  your  paper,  Granger,  if 
you  grab  it  before  the  other  reporters  do." 

Smiling,  the  Phantom  looked  Pinto  squarely  in  the 
eye.  "Your  story  needs  a  little  dressing  up.  It 
doesn't  hang  together.  Maybe  you  would  have  been 
able  to  think  up  a  better  one  if  your  nerves  hadn't 
been  on  the  jump.  For  one  thing,  Pinto,  no  cop  goes 
into  hysterics  at  sight  of  a  dead  body  unless  his  con- 
science is  giving  him  the  jimjams.  For  another,  you 
didn't  find  the  body  where  it  is  lying  now.  Unless 
I  am  very  much  mistaken,  you  dragged  it  out  from 
behind  those  packing  cases." 

He  pointed  to  a  corner  of  the  room  where  several 
large  boxes  had  been  displaced.  The  shamefaced 
expression  of  a  man  caught  in  a  clumsy  lie  mingled 
with  the  look  of  dread  in  Pinto's  countenance. 

"What  you  driving  at?"  he  demanded  with  a 
feeble  show  of  bluster. 

The  Phantom's  mind  worked  quickly.  In  the  last 
fifteen  minutes  his  suspicions  in  regard  to  Pinto  had 
become  a  certainty.  The  policeman's  conduct  left 
not  a  shred  of  doubt  as  to  his  guilt,  but  the  evidence 
the  law  would  require  was  still  lacking.   Pinto  would 


146      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


soon  gather  his  wits  and  invent  a  more  plausible  'ex- 
planation than  the  one  he  had  just  given,  and  on  an 
issue  of  veracity  between  the  Gray  Phantom  and  aa 
officer  of  the  law,  the  latter  would  have  all  the  ad- 
vantages. The  Phantom,  swiftly  appraising  the  sit- 
uation, saw  that  his  only  hope  lay  in  subtler  tactics. 
Perhaps  by  adroitly  working  on  the  policeman's  evi- 
dent pusillanimity  he  could  induce  him  to  make  a 
clean  breast  of  it. 

"The  game's  up,  Pinto,"  he  said  sternly.  "You 
murdered  Mrs.  Trippe,  just  as  you  murdered  Gage. 
Better  come  clean." 

A  ghastly  grin  wrinkled  the  patrolman's  face. 
"Think  so,  eh?  You  newspaper  guys  think  you're 
pretty  wise,  don't  you?  Well,  what  proof  have  you 
got?" 

For  answer  the  Phantom  Hecided  on  a  random 
thrust.  He  took  a  pencil  and  a  sheet  of  paper  from 
his  pocket  and,  placing  his  pistol  on  a  packing  case, 
roughly  sketched  a  ducal  coronet.  He  held  the  de- 
sign close  to  the  patrolman's  eyes. 

Pinto  glanced  at  the  sketch.  With  a  hoarse  cry 
he  shrank  back  a  step,  but  in  a  moment,  by  an  exer- 
tion of  will  power,  he  had  partly  mastered  his  emo- 
tion.   He  guffawed  loudly. 

"Looks  like  a  crow's  nest  to  me,"  he  gibed. 

"You  recognized  it  just  the  same,  Pinto.  Your 
face  told  me  you  did,  so  there's  no  use  denying  it. 
You're  a  member  of  the  Duke's  crew.  You  had 
orders  to  kill  Gage,  and  you  did.  It  was  fairly, 
clever,  too,  the  way  you  arranged  things  so  suspicion 
would  fall  on — ahem,  on  the  Gray  Phantom.  But 
the  housekeeper  somehow  saw  through  you.  She 
was  wise  to  you.  And  so,  fearing  she  might  tell  what 
she  knew  and  send  you  to  the  chair,  you  killed  her, 
too.   Then  " 


nrHE  OTHER  LINK 


147 


"You've  got  some  imagination,  you  have!"  jeered 
the  policeman,  struggling  hard  to  maintain  a  grip  on 
himself. 

"Then,"  continued  the  Phantom  coolly,  uyou  car- 
ried the  body  up  here  and  hid  it.  Not  a  very  clever 
move,  but  you  were  scared  at  the  time,  and  people 
do  queer  things  when  they  are  panicky.  You  real- 
ized the  Phantom  couldn't  be  blamed  for  the  murder 
of  Mrs.  Trippe,  for  he  was  in  jail  when  the  job  was 
done.  Anyhow,  everybody  thought  he  was,  which 
amounted  to  the  same  thing.  You  were  in  no  condi- 
tion to  reason  things  out,  and  the  only  safe  way  out 
of  the  mess  you  had  made  seemed  to  be  to  hide  the 
body.  It  would  postpone  discovery  of  the  murder 
for  a  while  and  give  you  a  chance  to  think.  The 
hiding  place  you  picked  wasn't  a  very  good  one,  but 
it  was  the  best  you  could  find  in  a  hurry." 

"Yeah?"  taunted  Pinto.  "Been  hitting  the  booze 
again,  ain't  you?" 

"No;  I'm  sober  for  once.  Well,  Pinto,  after  our 
little  talk  a  while  ago  you  were  a  bit  worried.  You 
knew  someone  would  find  the  body  sooner  or  later, 
and  you  thought  things  would  look  better  all  around 
if  you  were  the  one  to  find  it.  Anyhow,  there  was 
no  reason  for  keeping  it  hidden  longer  after  it  turned 
out  that  the  police  had  nabbed  the  wrong  man  and 
the  Phantom  had  no  alibi.  I  suppose  if  I  hadn't 
stopped  you  when  I  did,  you  would  now  be  at  the 
telephone  reporting  your  discovery  to  the  station 
house." 

As  he  spolce\  the  Phantom  studied  every  change  of 
Expression  in  the  other's  face.  Pinto  winced  as  if 
"each  word  had  been  a  needle  prick,  but  he  seemed  to 
be  drawing  on  a  reserve  force  of  fortitude,  for  his 
courage  was  rising  rather  than  ebbing. 


148      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


"After  pulling  all  that  dream  stuff,"  he  said  sneer- 
ingly,  "mebbe  you'll  come  across  with  the  evidence." 

"Sure  thing."  The  Phantom's  tones  belied  his 
crumbling  hopes.  He  realized  he  had  no  evidence, 
and  Pinto  showed  no  signs  of  breaking  down.  "If 
what  I've  said  doesn't  hit  the  bull's-eye,  why  did  you 
sneak  in  here  and  drag  the  body  out  from  behind 
the  packing  cases?  You  seemed  to  be  making  a  bee 
line  for  it.    How  did  you  know  it  was  there?" 

"So  that's  what  you  call  evidence!"  Pinto  sneered. 
"I  guess  if  it  comes  down  to  brass  tacks,  my  word's 
as  good  as  yours.  Now  that  you've  got  all  that 
stuff  off  your  chest,  mebbe  you'll  answer  a  question 
or  two,  and  you  might  begin  by  telling  what  you're 
doing  here  yourself." 

"A  reporter  goes  everywhere." 
"Reporter — huh!  You've  been  on  the  Sphere 
four  weeks,  and  soused  half  the  time.  You  came 
here  from  Kansas  City.  You  worked  on  a  news- 
paper there  only  a  week  or  two,  according  to  the 
dope  the  department  got.  Seems  you've  been  tramp- 
ing around  a  lot  in  your  days.  Mebbe  you're  an 
honest-to-goodness  reporter,  and  mebbe  you're  not. 
I've  got  a  hunch  of  my  own." 

"Let's  hear  it,"  said  the  Phantom  lightly,  though 
inwardly  he  felt  somewhat  uneasy.  Pinto's  gaze, 
constantly  searching  his  face,  was  growing  keener 
with  every  passing  moment. 

"Well,  it  looks  mighty  queer  to  me  that  you 
showed  up  in  this  burg  just  a  few  weeks  ahead  of 
the  Phantom,  especially  since  you  two  look  so  much 
alike.  What's  queerer  still  is  that  you  got  pinched 
the  other  day  just  when  the  Phantom  was  as  good 
as  caught  in  the  net.  He  would  have  been  hauled  in 
if  you  hadn't  been  grabbed  by  mistake." 

"So,  that's  it."   The  Phantom  chuckled  amusedly. 


THE  OTHER  LINK 


149 


"Just  because  it  happened  that  way,  you're  thinking 
that  I  am  acting  as  a  foil  for  the  Gray  Phantom." 

"You  got  me  just  right,  Granger.  I'm  thinking 
that,  though  I'm  not  saying  much  about  it  yet. 
Here's  another  little  thing  I'd  like  to  get  your 
opinion  on."  He  came  a  step  closer,  looked  hard  at 
the  Phantom,  and  put  the  question  sharply.  "What's 
become  of  Helen  Hardwick?" 

"He-Helen  Hardwick?"  The  Phantom  stood 
rigid,  mouth  gaping  and  eyes  staring. 

"She's  the  one.  They  say  the  Phantom  has  £ 
crush  on  her  and  that  it  was  on  her  account  he; 
handed  the  Duke  that  wallop  some  months  ago* 
She's  supposed  " 

The  Phantom,  his  face  deathly  white,  clutched 
Pinto's  arm  in  a  grip  that  made  the  policeman 
squirm.  "What  about  Miss  Hardwick?"  he  de- 
manded hoarsely.  "Has  anything  happened  to  her? 
Speak,  man !" 

Pinto  freed  his  arm  and  gave  him  a  searching 
look.  "All  I  know  is  that  she's  missing,  and  I 
thought  mebbe  you  " 

"Missing?"  echoed  the  Phantom  sharply.  "What 
rdo  you  mean?   Speak  up !" 

In  his  excitement  he  did  not  see  that  the  look  of 
perplexity  in  Pinto's  eyes  had  given  way  to  a  cun- 
ning twinkle.  In  another  moment  the  policeman  had 
acted  with  a  precision  and  a  swiftness  that  indicated 
he  was  a  far  shrewder  man  that  his  looks  led  one 
to  think.  In  an  instant  the  pistol  had  been  beaten 
'from  the  Phantom's  numb  hand  and  in  the  space  o£ 
a  few  seconds  a  steel  link  was  gyved  around  his  wrist. 

"There,  Mr.  Gray  Phantom!"  exclaimed  the  po- 
liceman with  a  triumphant  chuckle.  "I  guess  you 
won't  get  away  from  me  this  time!" 

The  Phantom,  at  last  sensing  his  danger,  jumped 


150      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


to  one  side,  but  already  the  other  link  was  fastened 
around  the  policeman's  wrist.  Pinto's  words  regard- 
ing Helen  Hardwick  had  stunned  him  momentarily, 
and  he  had  not  seen  his  peril  until  it  was  too  late. 
Now  he  was  a  prisoner,  handcuffed  to  his  captor! 

"This  is  more  like  it!"  exclaimed  the  policeman, 
kicking  aside  the  pistol  his  prisoner  had  dropped  and 
shoving  his  own  weapon  against  the  Phantom's  dia- 
phragm. "I've  had  a  hunch  all  along  that,  if  you 
weren't  the  Phantom  himself,  you  were  his  alibi.  I'm 
wise  now,  all  right.  You  gave  yourself  away  when 
I  spoke  the  name  of  the  moll.  You  turned  white  to 
the  gills  and  almost  jumped  out  of  your  shoes.  Guess 
you  forgot  to  play  your  role  that  time,  Mr.  Phan- 
tom. Granger,  not  being  in  love  with  the  lady, 
wouldn't  have  thrown  a  fit  like  that.  Well,  we're 
off  for  the  station.  You  can  hand  'em  the  spiel  you 
gave  me,  and  see  how  much  they  believe  of  it." 

"Before  we  start,  tell  me  what  you  know  of  Miss 
Hardwick,"  pleaded  the  Phantom,  for  his  own  plight 
still  seemed  of  secondary  importance. 

Pinto  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "She's  vamoosed; 
that's  all  I  know.  Come  along.  Mebbe  she'll  drop 
in  and  see  you  when  you're  in  jail." 

"Jail!"  He  braced  his  weight  against  the  pull  at 
his  wrist.  "I'm  not  going  to  jail — not  while  Miss 
Hardwick' s  in  trouble.  You  may  be  a  little  stronger 
than  I,  Pinto,  butxI'm  in  better  trim,  and  you  can't 
budge  me." 

The  policeman  tore  at  the  link,  but  in  vain.  The 
Phantom  dropped  to  the  floor,  dug  his  heels  into  a 
crack  between  two  boards,  and  resisted  with  all  his 
might.  Pinto  puffed  and  cursed,  but  he  might  as 
well  have  tried  to  lift  himself  by  his  own  boot  straps, 
and  his  efforts  were  further  hampered  by  the  neces- 
sity of  keeping  the  pistol  aimed  with  his  free  hand. 


THE  OTHER  LINK 


151 


The  glint  in  his  captive's  eyes  hinted  that  *he  was 
but  waiting  for  a  chance  to  land  a  blow  with  his  fist 
between  the  policeman's  eyes. 

"Say,  what's  the  use  stalling?"  argued  Pinto,  re- 
sorting to  diplomacy  while  regaining  his  breath. 
"The  game's  up." 

The  Phantom  knew  it,  but  he  was  playing  for 
time.  Some  unexpected  turn  might  yet  reverse  the 
situation  and  give  him  the  upper  hand. 

"You're  done  for,  and  you  know  it,"  said  the  po- 
liceman impressively.    "Might  as  well  give  in." 

"Wrong,  Pinto.  You  seem  convinced  that  I'm 
the  Gray  Phantom,  and  you  ought  to  know  that  the 
Phantom  never  gives  in.  I  can  sit  here  as  long  as 
you  can.  Don't  you  think  we  had  better  com- 
promise?" 

"Compromise — your  grandmother!"  grumbled 
Pinto.    "You'll  never  get  out  of  this." 

Still  pointing  the  muzzle  at  his  prisoner,  he? 
brought  the  butt  of  the  weapon  close  to  one  of  his 
pockets.  Two  fingers  reached  down  and  extracted 
a  police  whistle,  and  in  an  instant  it  was  between  his 
lips,  giving  forth  a  shrill  blast.  He  waited  expect- 
antly for  a  few  moments.  Again  and  again  the; 
whistle  shrieked,  but  no  response  came. 

The  Phantom  grinned.  "The  acoustics  are  not 
all  that  might  be  desired.  The  windows  are  closed, 
and  there  are  several  heavy  walls  between  here  and 
the  street.  I  fear,  Pinto,  that  your  lung  power  is 
going  to  waste." 

Disgustedly  Pinto  dropped  the  whistle.  He  con- 
sidered for  a  moment,  then  a  grim  smile  lit  up  his 
face. 

"You've  sung  your  last  tune,  Mr.  Phantom,"  he" 
muttered.  "There's  always  a  way  to  handle  the 
likes  of  you." 


152      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


As  he  spoke,  he  quickly  shifted  his  hold  on  the 
pistol,  and  in  another  moment  the  handle  crashed 
down  on  the  prisoner's  head.  Of  a  sudden  the  Phan- 
tom felt  himself  grow  limp.  A  laugh  broke  hoarsely 
through  the  gloom  that  descended  upon  him.  He 
heard  a  voice,  but  it  sounded  faint  and  remote,  as 
if  coming  to  him  across  a  vast  chasm. 

"Guess  you  won't  get  out  of  that!" 

Then,  miles  away,  a  door  slammed.  He  exerted 
a  supreme  effort  to  shake  off  the  numbness  brought 
on  by  the  unexpected  blow.  His  eyes  fluttered  open. 
His  mind  struggled  out  of  the  blinding  haze.  The 
light  was  still  on,  and  his  staring  eyes  flitted  slowly 
about  the  room.  It  seemed  only  a  moment  ago  that 
the  door  had  slammed.  Pinto  was  nowhere  in  sight, 
and  for  a  moment  he  wondered  at  this. 

Then,  his  mind  clearing,  it  came  to  him  that  the 
policeman  had  gone  out  to  summon  assistance.  He 
had  had  his  lesson,  and  this  time  he  was  taking  no 
chances  with  so  dangerous  and  elusive  a  prisoner  as 
the  Gray  Phantom.  Doubtless  he  would  be  back 
in  a  few  moments,  and  then  

He  raised  himself  to  a  sitting  posture.  A  hideous 
recollection  electrified  his  body  and  mind.  Helen 
Hardwick  was  missing,  Pinto  had  said.  Perhaps  she 
wras  in  trouble;  perhaps  some  desperate  danger  con- 
fronted her.  He  must  find  her  at  once,  and  he  must 
get  out  of  the  room  before  Pinto  returned  with 
reinforcements. 

He  tried  to  rise,  but  something  restrained  him. 
It  was  the  steel  link  around  his  wrist.  Only  a  mo- 
ment ago,  so  it  seemed,  the  other  link  had  been 
fastened  to  Pinto's  hand.  Now  

A  groan  of  horror  broke  from  his  lips  as  he  saw 
the  thing  to  which  he  was  linked  by  a  band  of  steel. 


THE  OTHER  LINK 


153 


Pinto  had,  Indeed,  taken  no  chances.  Even  if  the 
Phantom  could  get  out  of  the  room,  his  hand  would 
be  chained  to  the  cold,  dead  hand  of  the  house- 
keeper. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


THE  DUKE'S  MESSENGER 

tN  vain  the  Phantom  spurred  his  wits  to  find  a  way 
I  out,  but  the  thought  that  hurt  him  most  was 
that  he  was  helpless  at  a  moment  when  Helen 
Hardwick  might  be  in  danger. 

What  had  happened  to  her?  His  imagination  pic- 
tured one  fearful  possibility  after  another.  The  one 
that  seemed  most  likely  was  that  the  Duke's  agents, 
aware  of  the  Phantom's  interest  in  the  girl,  had  lured 
her  into  a  trap.  The  Duke,  thorough  and  artful  in 
all  things,  could  be  depended  upon  to  miss  no  op- 
portunity to  make  his  revenge  complete. 

He  tried  to  clear  his  mind  of  harrowing  surmises. 
His  situation  was  desperate,  and  now  as  never  before 
he  needed  to  think  coolly  and  act  quickly.  At  any 
moment  Pinto  might  return,  and  the  seconds  were 
precious.  The  thought  that  sustained  him  was  that 
his  wits  had  never  yet  failed  him  in  an  emergency, 
and  that  always  in  the  past  he  had  contrived  to 
squeeze  out  of  tight  corners  by  performing  some 
astounding  feat. 

Yet,  was  his  dismal  afterthought,  he  had  never 
before  faced  a  situation  quite  like  this.  To  escape 
with  a  lifeless  form  gyved  to  his  hand  was  out  of 
the  question.  He  looked  swiftly  about  the  room,  but 
saw  nothing  that  suggested  a  means  of  deliverance. 
Even  the  pistol  he  had  dropped  had  been  removed 
by  the  thoughtful  Pinto.  If  he  escaped,  was  his  con^ 
elusion,  it  would  be  only  by  a  stroke  of  amazing  luck. 

154 


THE  DUKE'S  MESSENGER 


155 


Suddenly,  as  a  new  thought  came  to  him,  he  thrust 
his  free  hand  into  his  inside  breast  pocket.  His  face 
brightened  a  little.  Pinto  had  overlooked  some- 
thing, after  all.  His  case,  with  its  assortment  of 
carefully  selected  tools,  was  still  there.  Evidently 
Pinto  had  not  thought  it  necessary  to  search  his 
pockets.  He  took  out  the  little  box  and  ran  his  eyes 
over  the  snugly  packed  implements,  each  of  which 
had  been  prepared  with  a  definite  purpose  in  view. 

Quickly  he  tried  several  of  his  sharp-pointed  tools 
in  the  locks  of  the  handcuffs,  but  the  mechanism  was 
proof  against  manipulation,  and  he  soon  gave  up  the 
attempt.  Next  he  picked  out  a  small,  fine-toothed 
saw,  but  he  realized  he  would  only  be  wasting  time 
if  he  tried  to  cut  through  the  chilled  steel  of  which 
the  links  were  made.  It  might  be  done  if  he  had 
hours  at  his  command. 

A  step  sounded  in  the  hall.  One  more  hope  re- 
mained. From  his  case  he  took  a  small  capsule, 
pointed  at  one  end  and  scarcely  longer  than  a  pin. 
It  contained  a  combustible  powder,  and  the  Phan- 
tom had  carried  it  with  him  for  just  such  an  emer- 
gency as  this.  Now  he  took  one  of  Granger's  ciga- 
rettes from  his  pocket,  inserted  the  capsule  at  one 
end,  and  put  the  cigarette  in  his  mouth.  Then  he 
returned  the  case  to  his  pocket  and,  just  as  the  door 
came  open,  was  making  an  elaborate  pretense  of 
hunting  for  a  match. 

He  looked  up  with  an  air  of  unconcern — and  in 
the  next  instant  the  cigarette  dropped  from  his  gap- 
ing lips.  He  had  expected  Pinto  to  walk  in  with 
one  or  more  of  his  colleagues,  but  instead  he  saw 
the  dwarfish  creature  who  had  handed  him  the  paper 
bearing  the  Duke's  emblem. 

For  a  few  moments  the  little  man  remained  in  the 
Sioorway,  sweeping  the  room  with  a  quick,  nervous 


156      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


glance,  then  closed  the  'door  and  came  Torwar3. 
Mechanically  the  Phantom  restored  the  cigarette  to 
his  lips  while  staring  at  the  queer  intruder.  The 
electric  light  lent  a  yellow  tinge  to  his  shriveled  face 
— a  face  so  gloomy  and  sour  that  it  gave  the  impres- 
sion of  never  having  been  lit  up  by  a  grin.  He  drew 
a  pistol  from  his  pocket  as  he  approached  the 
Phantom. 

"Well,  Granger,  you  sure  got  into  a  mess,"  he  ob- 
served, speaking  in  a  wheezy,  drawling  voice. 

"So  it  seems,"  agreed  the  Phantom,  his  mind 
working  quickly.    "Got  a  match?" 

The  weazened  individual  handed  him  one,  but  the 
Phantom  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  light  his  cigarette. 

"I  kinda  thought  you'd  get  yourself  in  bad,  the 
way  you  carried  on,"  continued  the  little  man,  gazing 
indifferently  at  the  body.  "Didn't  you  savvy  the 
note  I  slipped  you?" 

"It  was  plain  enough." 

"But  you  paid  no  more  attention  than  if  it  had 
been  an  invitation  to  a  dog  fight." 

"I  didn't  think  there  was  any  great  rush,"  said 
the  Phantom  cautiously.  "I  thought  to-morrow 
would  be  time  enough." 

"Time  enough?  He,  he!  Well,  you're  a  queer 
one,  Granger.  Guess  you  don't  know  the  big  chief 
the  way  I  do.  When  he  sends  for  you  it  means  he 
wants  you  right  away.  He's  already  kinda  leery 
about  you  and —  But  that's  your  funeral.  Hope 
for  your  sake  you  can  square  yourself  with  him. 
It's  a  lucky  thing  I  turned  back  and  got  on  your  trail 
after  slipping  you  the  note." 

The  Phantom,  wondering  what  had  happened  to 
the  policeman,  looked  uneasily  at  the  door. 
"Where's  Pinto?"  he  asked  after  a  pause. 

"The  cop?    Oh,  I  fixed  him.    Handed  him  one 


THE  DUKE'S  MESSENGER  157 


'from  the  rear  as  he  was  starting  down  the  stairs, 
and  he  never  knew  what  struck  him.  Just  gave  a 
grunt  and  went  down  like  a  bag  of  cement.  You 
see,  I'd  been  standing  at  the  door  trying  to  get  the 
hang  of  the  gabfest  between  you  and  him.  I  couldn't 
hear  much — only  a  word  now  and  then — but  when 
the  door  opens  and  the  cop  walks  out  I  know  there's 
trouble,  and  so  I  hand  him  one  on  the  bean.  Say, 
how  much  is  that  cop  wise  to?" 

"Eh?"  The  Phantom  stared  for  an  instant,  un- 
certain how  he  should  play  his  role,  but  he  quickly 
grasped  the  threads  of  the  situation.  "Oh,  Pinto  is 
away  off  on  his  hunches.  Hasn't  the  least  idea  I'm 
one  of  your  gang,  but  thinks  I  am  dragging  a  red 
herring  across  the  Phantom's  trail.    Rich — what?" 

The  other  chuckled  mirthlessly.  "I'll  say  it  is. 
Well,  the  cop  won't  do  any  talking  for  quite  a  long 
stretch,  and  when  he  comes  to  things  will  be  kind 
of  hazy  in  his  coco.  You'd  better  come  along  with 
me  and  make  your  spiel  to  the  big  chief.  You'll 
have  to  do  some  tall  explaining,  and,  unless  you  can 
square  yourself,  you  may  wish  the  cop  had  got  you." 

There  was  an  ugly  smirk  on  the  man's  lips  and  he 
spoke  the  last  words  as  if  gloating  over  the  ordeal 
in  store  for  the  other. 

The  Phantom  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I  can 
explain  things  to  the  big  chief.  What  worries  me 
is  the  bracelet  on  my  wrist!" 

"I'll  get  the  key  out  of  the  cop's  pocket,"  an- 
nounced the  little  man. 

The  Phantom  gazed  after  him  as  he  left  the  room. 
A  little  while  ago  he  had  told  himself  that  only  a 
stroke  of  magic  could  save  him,  and  the  weazened 
creature's  appearance  at  the  crucial  moment  seemed 
almost  miraculous.    Yet  he  looked  a  trifle  dubious. 

"I'm  coming  out  of  the  fire,"  he  mumbled,  "but  I 


158      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


haven't  the  least  idea  what  the  frying  pan  will  be 
like.  The  little  rat  may  be  hard  to  shake,  and  Pinto 
will  spoil  my  alibi  as  soon  as  he  comes  out  of  ob- 
livion." 

The  small  man  returned  and  tossed  a  metallic 
object  at  the  Phantom's  feet,  then  stood  aside,  with 
pistol  leveled,  while  the  handcuffs  were  being  un- 
locked. His  sharp  eyes  followed  every  move  the 
Phantom  made,  but  evidently  there  was  not  the 
faintest  suspicion  in  his  mind  as  to  the  identity  of 
the  man  with  whom  he  was  dealing.  In  all  likeli- 
hood he  knew  Granger  but  slightly  and  had  never 
seen  much  of  him. 

"There!"  exclaimed  the  Phantom  as  the  link 
around  his  wrist  parted.  uPinto  will  be  the  most 
surprised  cop  in  creation  when  he  walks  in  here  and 
finds  the  bird  flown.    I!-m  dying  for  a  smoke." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  struck  the  match,  glancing 
narrowly  at  the  other  as  he  lighted  his  cigarette. 
There  was  a  look  of  habitual  alertness  in  the  little 
man's  glittering  eyes,  and  the  pistol  in  his  hand  more; 
than  equalized  his  physical  disadvantage. 

"Look  here,  Granger,"  he  said  in  harsh,  wheezy 
tones,  "I  don't  quite  know  how  to  size  you  up,  but 
you  and  the  chief  are  going  to  have  a  chat  directly. 
I'm  putting  my  gat  inside  my  pocket — like  this.  I'll 
have  my  finger  on  the  trigger  all  the  time,  so  you'd 
better  watch  your  step.    We're  off." 

He  motioned  the  Phantom  to  start.  With  a  hard 
pull  on  his  cigarette,  the  Phantom  drew  in  all  the 
smoke  his  mouth  could  hold,  strolled  forward  with 
an  easy  swagger,  and,  turning  abruptly  on  the  little 
man,  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke  into  his  face. 

The  victim  gasped,  spluttered,  and  choked,  then' 
was  seized  with  an  attack  of  sneezing  that  racked  his 
sides  and  convulsed  his  entire  body.    Spasm  after 


THE  DUKE'S  MESSENGER 


159 


spasm  shook  the  puny  figure  until  the  little  man  was 
quite  exhausted.  Covering  his  nose  and  mouth,  the 
Phantom  stepped  behind  him  and  snatched  the  pistol 
from  his  pocket. 

"The  sneezing  powder  worked  even  better  than 
the  last  time  I  tried  it,"  he  observed  with  a  chuckle. 

"Ker-choooo  1"  was  the  other's  explosive  com- 
ment.   "Ker-chooooo !" 

Slowly  the  acrid  fumes  drifted  toward  the  ceiling. 
The  little  man,  with  tears  streaming  from  his  red- 
lidded  eyes,  lurched  toward  one  of  the  rows  of 
packing  cases  and  leaned  against  it.  The  smoke  was 
scattering,  but  repeated  fits  of  sneezing  were  still 
jolting  his  frame. 

The  Phantom  smothered  the  cigarette  under  his 
heel.  A  simple  trick  had  turned  the  situation  in  his 
favor,  but  now  he  faced  another  problem.  How  to 
(dispose  of  the  little  man  and  Pinto  was  a  poser. 
The  former  did  not  worry  him,  for  he  had  bungled 
his  job  miserably,  and  silence  and  discretion  were 
highly  esteemed  virtues  in  the  Duke's  organization. 

It  was  different  with  Pinto.  The  policeman  had 
seen  through  the  Phantom's  disguise.  Immediately 
upon  recovering  consciousness  he  would  report  that 
the  Phantom  was  masquerading  as  Thomas 
Granger,  and  that  would  be  the  end  of  the  ruse. 
The  personality  he  had  borrowed  would  no  longer 
protect  the  Phantom,  and  he  would  once  more  be 
a  hunted  man  and  obliged  to  watch  his  step  at  every 
turn. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  was  just  possible  Pinto 
would  not  tell  what  he  had  discovered.  The  police- 
man, had  a  bad  conscience,  and  that  in  itself  made  a 
difference.  Besides,  the  Phantom  had  twice  slipped 
out  of  his  hands  and  he  had  achieved  nothing 
whereof  he  could  boast.    His  pride  and  his  con- 


160      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


science,  each  a  powerful  factor,  would  be  very  likely 
to  seal  his  lips. 

Suddenly  he  smiled.  To  make  doubly  sure,  he 
would  provide  Pinto  with  a  third  motive  for  main- 
taining silence.  Without  doubt  the  policeman 
shared  the  average  man's  fear  of  ridicule,  and  the 
Phantom  could  work  on  that. 

The  sneezings  had  ceased.  The  victim,  looking 
as  though  every  ounce  of  strength  had  been  drained 
from  him,  peered  vacantly  at  the  Phantom  while 
the  latter  removed  the  second  link  from  the  dead 
woman's  hand.  Exhausted  by  the  sneezing  fits  and 
deprived  of  his  weapon,  he  was  as  helpless  as  a 
snake  stripped  of  its  poisonous  glands. 

"Put  your  hands  behind  you,"  directed  the  Phan- 
tom. 

The  little  man  made  as  if  inclined  to  resist,  but 
thought  better  of  it  and  obediently  put  his  hands 
at  his  back.  He  uttered  a  feeble  yawp  as  one  of  the 
links  was  clasped  about  his  wrist.  With  the  other 
in  his  hand,  the  Phantom  led  him  from  the  room 
and  turned  toward  the  stairs.  A  dark,  inert  heap 
lay  at  the  head  of  the  stairway,  with  legs  sprawling 
over  the  steps.    It  was  Pinto. 

"Sit  down,"  ordered  the  Phantom. 

The  puny  man  looked  about  him  dazedly,  then 
sat  down  on  the  top  step,  uttering  a  weak  protest 
as  he  found  himself  handcuffed  to  the  unconscious 
man. 

The  Phantom  examined  Pinto's  head.  A  large 
swelling  at  the  back  told  that  the  little  man  had  put 
far  more  force  behind  the  blow  than  one  would  have 
thought  it  possible  for  such  a  dwarfish  creature  to 
exert.  The  pulse  was  weak  and  fluttering,  and  the 
eyes  had  a  rigid  and  glassy  look.    The  Phantom 


THE  DUKE'S  MESSENGER 


161 


had  known  of  similar  cases  in  which  the  victims  had 
remained  unconscious  for  days,  and  many  things 
might  happen  before  Pinto's  mind  and  tongue  were 
[functioning  again.  Upon  awakening  and  being  told 
that  he  had  been  found  handcuffed  to  a  rat  of  the 
underworld,  the  policeman,  already  troubled  by  an 
£vil  conscience  and  wounded  self-respect,  would 
hardly  invite  the  taunts  and  jeers  of  his  fellow  of- 
ficers by  going  into  exact  details.  At  any  rate,  the 
Phantom  felt  he  was  playing  his  best  card. 

"Say,  Granger,"  whined  the  little  man,  "ain't  go- 
ing to  leave  me  like  this,  are  you?  Not  after  I  got 
you  out  of  the  fix  you  were  in?" 

"It  is  a  bit  rough  on  you,  I  admit,  but  you  will 
have  to  make  the  best  of  it.  Your  reasons  for  get- 
ting me  out  of  the  scrape  weren't  entirely  unselfish. 
I  believe  it  was  your  intention  to  put  me  on  the 
carpet  before  the  big  chief." 

The  other  jerked  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the; 
storeroom.  "They'll  say  I  croaked  that  woman  in 
there,"  he  muttered. 

"Not  a  chance.  Examination  of  the  body  will 
show  that  the  murder  was  committed  more  than 
twenty-four  hours  ago.  What  they  probably  will 
think  is  that  Pinto  caught  you  in  the  act  of  robbery 
and  that  you  assaulted  him  after  he  had  handcuffed 
you  to  him.  One  guess  will  be  about  as  good  as 
another,  though,  and  you  will  have  to  lie  yourself 
out  of  the  mess  somehow.    I  wish  you  luck." 

He  started  down  the  stairs,  but  in  the  middle  he 
stopped  and  looked  back.  What  if  Pinto  should 
never  recover  consciousness?  If  he  should  die  be- 
fore the  two  murder  mysteries  were  fully  cleared 
up,  the  Phantom's  efforts  to  exculpate  himself  would 
encounter  a  serious  hindrance.    But  nothing  was  to 


162      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


be  gained  by  worrying  over  what  might  happen,  he 
told  himself,  and  just  now  he  had  something  far 
more  serious  to  think  about.  His  fears  concerning 
Helen  overshadowed  all  other  things. 

He  went  out  onto  the  street.  The  morning  was 
far  advanced  and  the  sun  was  struggling  through  a 
curtain  of  scattering  clouds.  The  glaring  headlines 
of  the  morning  papers  spread  out  on  the  news  stands 
at  the  corner  told  how  the  Phantom,  after  having 
been  seen  at  an  elevated  railway  station  the  night 
before,  had  once  more  slipped  through  the  dragnet. 
After  a  brief  glance  at  the  introductory  paragraphs, 
he  crossed  the  street  and  entered  the  telephone  booth 
in  the  rear  of  a  drug  store.  There  he  consulted  the 
directory  and  called  the  number  of  the  Hardwick 
residence. 

A  woman,  evidently  a  servant,  answered.  The 
Phantom  announced  that  he  was  a  reporter  on  the 
Sphere  and  wished  to  speak  with  the  master  of  the 
house.  After  a  fewT  moments'  wait  a  masculine  voice 
came  over  the  wire.  It  trembled  a  little,  as  if  its 
owner  was  trying  to  control  an  intense  excitement. 
Mr.  Hardwick  was  at  first  unwilling  to  discuss  the 
matter,  but  after  repeated  urgings  admitted  that  he 
had  requested  the  police  to  search  for  his  daughter, 
who  had  been  missing  for  two  days.  She  had  left 
home  without  explanations  of  any  kind,  and  nothing 
had  been  heard  from  her  since.  As  it  was  entirely 
unlike  her  to  go  away  for  any  length  of  time  with- 
out notifying  her  father,  Mr.  Hardwick  feared 
something  had  happened  to  her. 

The  Phantom's  face  had  a  blank  look  as  he 
'emerged  from  the  booth.  He  remembered  Miss 
Hardwick' s  sudden  and  mysterious  disappearance 
from  Doctor  Bimble's  laboratory.    Something  must 


THE  DUKE'S  MESSENGER  163 


have  befallen  her  after  leaving  the  scientist's  house, 
and  the  fact  that  she  had  not  communicated  with  her 
father  was  disquieting. 

He  went  out  on  the  sidewalk  and  turned  toward 
the  corner.  Of  a  sudden  he  was  all  caution  and 
alertness.   Someone  was  watching  him. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


THE  STARTING  POINT 

THE  Phantom  feigned  utter  unconcern  as  he 
continued  toward  the  corner.  His  acute  senses 
had  instantly  registered  the  fact  that  he  was 
an  object  of  scrutiny.  It  vexed  him  not  a  little,  for 
he  was  anxious  to  get  on  Helen  Hardwick's  trail, 
and  he  had  no  relish  for  another  adventure  with  the 
police.  He  looked  about  him  out  of  the  tail  of  an) 
eye  as  he  advanced  with  a  leisurely  swing. 

It  took  him  but  a  few  moments  to  pick  out  the 
watcher  from  among  the  sprinkling  of  loungers  and 
pedestrians  on  the  sidewalk.  The  mans  dull  face; 
and  stolid  expression  did  not  deceive  the  Phantom 
for  a  moment.  He  stood  with  his  back  against  a 
shop  window,  and  part  of  his  face  was  hidden  by  a 
newspaper  he  pretended  to  be  reading.  The  Phan- 
tom walked  up  beside  him. 

"You're  a  detective,  aren't  you?" 
The  man  lowered  the  newspaper  and  gazed  at  the 
questioner  out  of  deceptively  sluggish  eyes. 
"What  makes  you  think  so?" 
The  Phantom  chuckled,  though  he  knew  he  was 
treading  on  dangerous  ground.    It  was  just  pos- 
sible that  Granger,  although  he  had  not  been  long 
in  the  city  and  therefore  could  not  have  an  extensive 
police  acquaintance,  had  met  this  particular  de- 
tective.   A  careful  study  of  the  man's  face  reas- 
sured him,  however. 

164 


THE  STARTING  POINT  165 


"OK,  I  spotted  you  easily  enough,"  was  Kis  an- 
swer. "I  suppose  you  Kave  Keard  of  me.  I  am 
TKomas  Granger,  of  the  Sphere." 

The  other  gave  a  slight  nod.  A  faint  grin  creased 
his  face.  "I've  heard  of  you,  all  right.  On  the  day 
you  were  pinched,  they  tell  me,  you  had  the  beauti- 
fulest  jag  on  that's  been  seen  in  this  town  in  many 
a  day.  Why  don't  you  put  a  fellow  wise  to  your 
source  of  supply?" 

"I  may,"  with  a  knowing  wink,  "if  you  promise 
not  to  jug  me  again." 

"Well,  you  needn't  rub  it  in,  Granger.  You  look 
a  lot  like  the  Gray  Phantom.  If  you  didn't  have 
those  glad  rags  on,  I  wouldn't  be  able  to  tell  the 
difference.  I  never  met  the  Phantom  face  to  face, 
but  judging  from  his  picture  I  should  say  you're  as 
much  alike  as  two  peas.  By  the  wTay,  my  name  is 
Culligore — Lieutenant  Culligore." 

The  Phantom  repressed  a  start.  He  had  seen  the 
name  in  the  earlier  newspaper  accounts  of  the 
murder  and  remembered  that  Culligore  had  been 
one  of  the  detectives  assigned  to  the  case.  He  won- 
dered whether  it  were  possible  that  he  and  Granger 
had  not  met  while  the  reporter  was  getting  the  facts 
of  the  tragedy  for  his  paper.  The  detective's  face 
showed  no  sign  of  suspicion,  but  the  Phantom  noticed 
that  he  had  an  odd  habit  of  rubbing  his  upper  lip 
against  the  tip  of  his  nose,  and  the  little  mannerism 
impressed  him  as  significant  of  deep  and  devious 
mental  processes. 

"That  reminds  me!"  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  as  if 
just  recalling  something.  "There's  been  a  brand- 
new  murder  committed  over  at  the  Gage  house." 

The  detective  lifted  his  brows. 

"I  was  snooping  around,  hoping  to  find  some  new 
twist  to  the  case,"  explained  the  Phantom.    "In  a 


166      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


storeroom  on  the  second  floor  I  found  the  body  of 
the  housekeeper.  She  looked  as  though  she  ha'di 
been  dead  a  good  many  hours.  Pinto  is  lying  on  the 
stairs  with  a  bump  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and  he's 
handcuffed  to  a  little  shrimp  that  looks  like  a  dope 
fiend." 

Lieutenant  Culligore  stared  as  he  heard  the 
strange  report.    "Been  drinking  again?" 
"Go  and  see  for  yourself." 

Culligore  at  last  showed  signs  of  activity.  "Better 
come  along,"  he  suggested.  "If  you've  been  telling 
me  the  truth,  there  ought  to  be  a  good  story  in  it 
for  you." 

"I've  seen  enough.  Going  back  to  the  office  to 
write  it  up." 

The  two  parted.  As  Culligore  started  to  cross 
the  street,  he  made  a  curious  motion  with  his  hand, 
and  the  Phantom  fancied  he  was  signaling  someone 
on  the  other  side.  He  walked  briskly  toward  the 
elevated  station.  Evidently  Culligore  had  put  a  col- 
league on  his  trail,  thereby  showing  that  he  was  not 
so  unsuspecting  as  the  Phantom  had  thought.  He 
ascended  the  stairs  and  walked  out  onto  the  plat- 
form without  a  single  backward  glance,  but  his  ears, 
trained  to  catch  and  classify  the  slightest  sounds, 
told  him  a  pursuer  was  behind  him. 

The  train,  a  southbound  one,  was  crowded  with 
passengers.  The  Phantom  selected  a  strap  near  the 
rear  end  of  one  of  the  cars.  The  many  curious 
glances  leveled  in  his  direction  told  him  he  was  being 
recognized  as  the  newspaper  reporter  who  had  won 
fame  by  being  mistaken  for  the  Gray  Phantom  and 
whose  photograph  had  appeared  side  by  side  with 
that  of  the  notorious  rogue.  While  ostensibly  ab- 
sorbed in  an  advertisement,  he  cast  a  sidelong  glance 
at  the  platform  of  the  car  just  ahead.    The  brief 


THE  STARTING  POINT  167 


glimpse  sufficed  to  Identify  his  pursuer  as  a  broad- 
shouldered  individual  in  a  brown  suit,  whose  rather 
commonplace  features  were  shaded  by  the  brim  of 
a  derby. 

The  Phantom  was  in  a  quandary.  He  could  ac- 
complish nothing  with  a  "shadow"  at  his  heels,  and 
there  was  something  maddening  in  the  thought  that 
he  was  losing  time  while  Helen  Hardwick  might  be 
in  danger.  He  could  probably  elude  his  pursuer 
without  much  difficulty,  but  that  would  be  a  confes- 
sion that  he  had  something  to  hide,  and  might  pos- 
sibly result  in  his  being  picked  up  on  a  general  alarm. 
He  was  safe  behind  the  personality  of  Thomas 
Granger  only  so  long  as  he  did  not  engage  in  sus- 
picious conduct. 

An  idea  flashed  in  his  mind  as  he  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  skyscrapers  of  City  Hall  Park.  He  would 
take  the  bull  by  the  horns,  he  decided.  The  safest 
and  surest  way  of  averting  suspicion  from  himself 
was  to  play  his  borrowed  role  boldly  and  thoroughly. 
He  would  proceed  at  once  to  the  offices  of  the  Sphere. 
and  make  a  judiciously  colored  report  of  the  latest 
affair  at  the  Gage  house.  It  was  a  dangerous  ex- 
periment, but  the  Phantom  believed  he  could  carry 
it  out.  A  bold  play,  a  bit  of  clever  acting,  and  the 
usual  accompaniment  of  good  luck  were  all  that  was 
necessary. 

He  was  still  conscious  of  pursuit  as  he  alighted 
and  turned  in, the  direction  of  the  Sphere  Building. 
A  glance  at  the  bulletin  board  in  the  rotunda  showed 
him  the  location  of  the  editorial  rooms,  and  he  as- 
cended in  the  elevator.  The  mirrors  lining  the  walls 
of  the  cage  threw  back  at  him  a  reflection  showing 
signs  of  suspense,  worry,  and  want  of  sleep.  His 
'face  was  drawn  and  furrowed,  and  the  usual  luster 
of  his  eyes  was  a  trifle  dimmed,  but  these  symptoms 


168      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


might  also  be  indications  of  heavy  drinking,  and  they; 
enhanced  his  resemblance  to  Granger. 

The  building  throbbed  with  the  pulsations  of, 
presses.  From  above,  like  a  continuous  rattle  of 
shrapnel,  came  the  din  and  clatter  of  the  linotypes. 
Faint  odors  of  ink  and  whiffs  from  the  sterotyping 
and  photo-engraving  plants  hung  in  the  air. 

The  Phantom  stepped  out  with  a  jaunty  appear- 
ance, though  inwardly  he  was  quailing  a  trifle.  A 
sign  on  frosted  glass  told  him  which  door  to  enter, 
and  a  red-haired  youth  presiding  at  a  desk  in  art 
anteroom  grinned  broadly  as  he  passed  through. 
A  dozen  typewriters  jabbered  noisily  in  the  room 
beyond.  As  the  Phantom  walked  in,  a  spectacled, 
shirt-sleeved  man  seated  at  a  desk  near  the  entrance 
looked  up  and  regarded  him  with  twinkling  eyes. 

"  'Lo,  Granger,"  was  his  good-humored  greeting. 
"Understand  'Old  War  Horse'  tied  a  can  to  you 
last  night." 

"Did  he?"  asked  the  Phantom,  guessing  that  the 
individual  referred  to  was  the  autocrat  who  had 
ordered  Granger  bounced.  "It  was  a  large  night, 
and  I  don't  remember  the  minor  details."  He 
looked  uncertainly  about  the  room,  as  if  his  vision 
was  a  trifle  clouded.  "Where  is  the  old  fire-eater?, 
Don't  see  him  around." 

"Of  course,  you  don't."  The  spectacled  man! 
laughed.  "Old  War  Horse  is  in  bed,  where  he  be- 
longs. I  guess  you  haven't  quite  recovered  your 
bearings  yet,  or  you'd  know  that  Slossdick  is  on  the 
'day  shift.  I  see  him  looking  this  way,  as  if  he  had 
designs  on  you." 

The  Phantom  trailed  the  spectacled  man's  glance 
to  a  glass-partioned  cubby-hole  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  where  a  bald  and  sharp-nosed  man  sat  at 
a  desk.    He  advanced  airily,  grinning  in  response  to 


THE  STARTING  POINT  169 


the  knowing  winks  and  well-meant  banter  that  fol- 
lowed him,  and  boldly  approached  the  scowling  per- 
sonage at  the  desk. 

"Don't  you  know  you're  fired?"  demanded  Sloss- 
dick,  jabbing  at  a  page  of  "copy"  with  his  pencil. 

"Am  I?"  inquired  the  Phantom  innocently.  He 
spoke  with  a  little  catch,  as  if  he  had  a  slight  cold, 
and  he  avoided  the  sunlight  streaming  in  through 
the  window.    "It  hadn't  occurred  to  me." 

"No  ?  Old  War  Horse  had  you  kicked  out,  didn't 
he?  You'd  been  insulting  him  again,  I  understand." 
Slossdick's  devastating  pencil  ripped  an  entire  para- 
graph out  of  the  copy  before  him.  "What's  biting 
you  this  morning?" 

"Nothing,"  said  the  Phantom  blandly.  "Just 
thought  you  might  like  to  know  that  there's  been 
another  murder  at  the  Gage  house." 

The  slashings  of  Slossdick's  pencil  ceased  abruptly. 
He  swept  the  Phantom's  face  with  a  quick,  searching 
glance.  Briefly  the  impostor  told  as  much  as  he 
thought  prudent,  describing  the  scene  in  the  store- 
room and  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  without  telling 
of  his  own  part  in  the  night's  events  or  of  Pinto's 
mysterious  conduct.  He  was  not  yet  ready  to  accuse 
the  policeman  openly,  and  for  the  present  it  suited 
his  purpose  to  leave  the  affair  vague  and  mysterious. 

There  was  a  flicker  of  interest  in  Slossdick's  eyes. 
"Housekeeper  murdered  and  policeman  lying  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs  handcuffed  to  a  dope.  Rattling 
good  yarn,  Granger.  But" — and  a  look  of  doubt 
crept  into  his  face — "we've  had  nothing  from  the 
police  on  this." 

"Good  reason.  The  police  didn't  know  of  it  till 
a  few  minutes  ago.  If  you  hurry,  you  will  beat  the 
other  papers  to  it." 

Slossdick  snatched  up  the  telephone  and  called  a 


170      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


department.  uFirst  page  make-over,"  he  snapped 
when  the  connection  had  been  established.  Then, 
turning  to  the  Phantom:  "Think  you  can  see  the 
typewriter  keys  this  morning?" 

The  Phantom  quavered  inwardly.  Typewriting 
was  not  among  his  accomplishments,  and  the  entire 
proceeding  was  strange  to  him.  He  hesitated,  no- 
ticing that  the  rumble  of  the  presses  had  already 
ceased. 

"Well,  never  mind,"  grumbled  Slossdick,  his 
pencil  already  at  work  on  an  eight-column  caption. 
"Give  the  dope  to  Fessenden  and  let  him  write  it. 
Then  go  home  and  get  some  sleep.  You  look  as  if 
you  needed  it.  And,  for  the  love  of  Mike,  steer 
clear  of  the  booze !  Fessenden!" 

In  response  to  the  explosive  shout,  a  lanky  and 
dyspeptic-looking  man  appeared  at  the  door  to  the 
cubby-hole.  After  receiving  a  few  terse  directions 
from  Slossdick,  he  led  the  Phantom  to  his  desk  and 
sat  down  before  his  typewriter.  He  inserted  a  sheet 
of  paper  in  the  machine  while  listening,  and  his  fin- 
gers were  racing  over  the  keys  even  before  the  Phan- 
tom had  finished  his  recital. 

"Bully  yarn  you've  turned  up,"  came  his  appre- 
ciative comment  over  the  clatter  of  the  keys.  "A 
peach!" 

The  Phantom  walked  away.  The;  story  would, 
of  course,  rouse  another  storm  of  indignation  against 
himself,  but  there  was  no  help  for  that.  On  the 
whole,  he  had  bettered  his  chances  and  enhanced  his 
temporary  safety  by  giving  the  Sphere  a  start  of 
twenty  minutes  or  half  an  hour  in  its  race  against 
competing  newspapers. 

His  shadow  was  nowhere  in  sight  as  he  emerged 
from  the  building.  Either  the  man's  suspicions  had 
been  disarmed  by  the  Phantom's  move,  or  else  he  had 


THE  STARTING  POINT  171 


grown  tired  of  waiting  and  'dropped  into  a  near-by 
restaurant  for  a  bite  of  food.  Standing  at  the  curb, 
the  Phantom  glanced  stealthily  to  right  and  left. 
There  was  no  sign  of  espionage  in  either  direction. 
At  last  he  was  free  to  begin  his  search  for  Helen 
Hardwick,  but  the  trail  seemed  to  have  neither  be- 
ginning nor  end.  In  vain  he  searched  his  mind  for 
a  starting  point. 

His  hands  were  in  his  pockets,  and  presently  his 
absently  groping  fingers  touched  a  piece  of  paper. 
He  drew  it  out,  starting  as  his  eyes  fell  on  the  ducal* 
coronet. 

"Guess  Til  see  Granger,"  he  reflected.  "I  have  a 
strong  hunch  he  is  my  starting  point." 


CHAPTER  XIX 


THE  BIG  STORY 

"TjOW  is  your  guest,  Peng  Yuen?"  was  the 
I  I    Phantom's  first  question  after  entering  the 

shop  on  Pell  Street. 
The  Chinaman's  eyes  widened.     uThe  guest? 
Ah,  yes,  I  remember.    I  think  the  gentleman  is  well." 

"Has  he  telephoned  anyone,  or  sent  out  any  mes- 
sages?" 

"No;  he  has  remained  in  his  room  all  the  time. 
He  asked  me  this  morning  for  something  to  read, 
and  I  gave  him  a  translation  of  'Chin-Kong-Ching.'  " 

"Good.    I  have  come  to  have  a  talk  with  him." 

"Very  well."  The  slight  figure,  arrayed  in  loose- 
fitting,  straw-colored  garments,  stepped  to  the  wall 
with  the  softly  gliding  gait  characteristic  of  his  race. 
He  pressed  a  button,  and  the  Phantom  passed 
through  an  opening  which  instantly  closed  behind 
him. 

Granger,  lying  on  a  couch,  looked  up  drowsily. 
The  little  room  had  neither  windows  nor  visible  door. 
Air  was  wafted  in  through  a  mysterious  recess  in  a 
corner  of  the  ceiling,  and  a  shaded  lamp  shed  a 
greenish  light  over  the  scene.  The  walls  were  cov- 
ered with  yellow  satin  embroidered  with  quotations 
from  Chinese  philosophers.  On  a  table  standing 
near  the  couch  were  the  remnants  of  a  breakfast. 

"Fairly  comfortable,  I  see."  The  Phantom  sat 
rdown.    His  glance,  though  seemingly  casual,  was 

172 


THE  BIG  STORY 


ITS 


taking  in  every  detail  of  the  reporter  s  appearance. 

"How  are  you  feeling?" 

"Rotten!"  Granger  rubbed  his  eyes  and  scowled 
disgustedly.  "I  asked  the  chink  for  something  to 
drink,  and  he  brought  me  a  mess  that  tasted  like 
vinegar  and  molasses.  Then  I  dropped  a  hint  that  I 
would  like  some  reading  matter,  and  he  handed  me 
a  book  that  put  me  to  sleep  before  I  had  turned  the 
first  page.  Say,  how  much  longer  are  you  going  to 
sport  my  clothes  and  wear  my  name?" 

"No  longer  than  I  have  to.  Your  name  suits 
me  well  enough,  but  our  tastes  in  clothes  differ." 

Granger  grinned.  He  was  comfortably  stretched 
out  on  his  back  and  his  eyes  were  lazily  studying  the 
arabesques  in  the  ceiling. 

"Anyhow,  my  clothes  are  harmless.  That's  more 
than  can  be  said  for  my  name.  On  the  square,  I  am 
surprised  to  see  you  this  morning." 

"Why  so?" 

There  was  a  twinkle  in  the  reporter's  eyes  as  he 
turned  them  on  the  Phantom.  "Because  you  went 
in  for  a  lot  of  trouble  when  you  annexed  my  identity. 
I  was  pickled  last  night,  and  you  took  my  breath 
away  when  you  yanked  off  the  mustache.  Till  then 
I  hadn't  had  the  faintest  idea  that  my  abductor  was 
the  Gray  Phantom.  If  I  hadn't  been  so  flabber- 
gasted I  might  have  given  you  a  friendly  tip." 

"A  tip?" 

"To  the  effect  that  Tommie  Granger  was  a 
marked  man.  I'll  tell  you  something  interesting  if 
you  promise  not  to  fall  out  of  the  chair.  I  am  a 
member  of  the  Duke's  gang." 

The  Phantom's  brows  went  up.  For  several 
hours  he  had  been  aware  of  Granger's  membership 
in  the  criminal  organization,  but  the  glib  admission 
surprised  him.    He  had  intended  to  pull  the  Duke's 


174      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


communication  out  of  his  pocket  with  a  dramatic 
gesture  and  startle  a  confession  out  of  the  reporter; 
and  he  was  wholly  unprepared  for  the  latter's  frank 
and  voluntary  avowal. 

"Surprised  you,  didn't  it?"  Granger  chuckled  as 
if  mildly  amused.  "I  can  hardly  get  used  to  the  idea 
myself.  Membership  in  that  gang  of  cutthroats  and 
grafters  is  nothing  to  be  proud  of,  exactly.  I've  al- 
ways had  a  sneaking  admiration  for  the  Gray  Phan- 
tom, but  the  Duke's  different.  He's  smooth  and 
artful  enough,  but  he's  made  of  coarser  stuff." 

"Yet  you  are  a  member  of  his  organization  ?" 

"Sounds  contradictory,  doesn't  it?  Well,  since  I 
have  told  you  the  beginning,  I'll  have  to  tell  you  the 
rest.  The  cause  of  it  all  dates  back  to  my  birth.  I 
came  into  the  world  with  the  face  I'm  wearing  to- 
day, though  it's  undergone  a  process  of  beautifica- 
tion  in  the  intervening  years.  You  see,  my  face  is 
the  mainspring  that  has  determined  most  of  my 
actions  in  recent  years — some  of  the  more  impor- 
tant ones,  anyhow.  I  wouldn't  be  a  newspaper  man 
to-day  if  I  had  been  born  with  a  different  face." 

"I  don't  see  the  connection." 

"Let  me  tell  you  how  it  came  about.  On  seven 
different  occasions,  and  in  as  many  different  places, 
il  have  been  mistaken  for  the  Gray  Phantom  and  put 
in  durance  vile.  The  clippings  in  my  scrapbook  tell 
all  about  it.  I  was  in  Cheyenne,  Wyoming,  the  first 
time  it  happened,  and  after  I  had  satisfied  the  police 
dunderheads  as  to  my  identity,  the  editor  of  one  of 
the  local  papers  asked  me  to  write  up  my  impressions 
while  in  jail  and  tell  how  it  felt  to  be  mistaken  for 
a  celebrity  like  the  Gray  Phantom.  I  did,  and  that 
gave  me  a  taste  for  newspaper  work.  The  editor 
gave  me  a  job  on  the  spot  and  I've  " 

"But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  your  member- 


THE  BIG  STORY 


175 


ship  in  the  Duke's  gang?"  interrupted  the  Phantom 
impatiently. 

"Everything.  I've  been  plugging  away  at  the 
newspaper  game  ever  since  I  got  my  start  in  Chey- 
enne. I  never  stayed  long  in  a  place,  for  I  have 
something  of  a  roving  disposition  and  like  change 
of  scenery  now  and  then.  My  face  got  me  in  bad 
almost  wherever  I  went.  I  had  no  sooner  struck  a 
new  town  than  some  ambitious  dick  thought  he  saw 
a  chance  to  get  famous  by  pinching  the  Gray  Phan- 
tom. Of  course,  that  always  meant  a  stretch  in  thej 
lock-up — anything  from  two  days  to  a  week.  I  used 
to  lie  awake  nights  imagining  that  I  was  in  reality 
the  Gray  Phantom  and  dreaming  of  great  criminal 
exploits.  That  got  me  interested  in  crime  and  crim- 
inals, and  I  began  making  a  study  of  the  subject. 

"Finally,  I  drifted  into  New  York  and  landed  on 
the  Sphere.  One  night  while  prowling  about  the 
Chatham  Square  section  I  dropped  into  a  Turkish 
coffee  house.  It  was  a  low  joint,  a  hangout  for  thugs 
and  thieves.  While  sipping  my  coffee  I  made  a  study 
of  the  different  types  around  me.  One  fellow  inter- 
ested me  in  particular.  He  was  an  evil-looking  cuss, 
but  there  was  something  about  him  that  fascinated 
me.  He  looked  something  like  a  Stevensonian  pi- 
rate, and  he  had  a  great  scar  over  his  left  eye.  Pres- 
ently I  began  to  notice  that  he  was  looking  my  way 
now  and  then,  and  finally  I  motioned  to  him  to  come 
and  sit  beside  me.  We  talked  in  whispers,  like  every- 
body else  in  the  joint,  and  by  and  by  he  asked  me  if 
I  was  not  the  Gray  Phantom. 

"He  seemed  disappointed  when  I  told  him  I  was 
only  the  Phantom's  double.  We  talked  on  for  a 
while,  and  the  next  night  we  met  again  in  the  same 
place.  The  fellow  piqued  my  curiosity,  and  I  tried 
to  draw  him  out  whenever  I  had  a  chance.    I  knew 


176      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


he  would  shut  up  like  a  clam  if  I  told  him  my  pro- 
fession, so  I  let  him  think  I  was  a  crook,  though  I 
didn't  go  into  details.  We  met  night  after  night,  and 
each  time  we  were  more  confidential.  I  could  tell 
he  had  something  on  his  mind  that  he  didn't  know 
just  how  to  put  into  words,  and  of  course,  I  did  my 
best  to  lead  him  on.  He  approached  the  subject  by 
slow  and  easy  stages,  dropping  a  cautious  hint  now 
and  then.  Finally,  when  he  had  convinced  himself 
that  I  was  to  be  trusted,  he  told  me  he  belonged  to 
a  big  criminal  band  and  asked  me  if  I  would  like  to 
join." 

uSo  that's  how  you  happened  to  become  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Duke's  organization?"  observed  the. 
Phantom. 

"To  cut  a  long  story  short,  that  was  the  way  it 
happened.  I  thought  I  could  work  the  salamander 
stunt — play  with  fire  without  getting  burned.  The 
idea  of  getting  on  the  inside  of  a  big  gang  of  crooks 
and  studying  its  members  at  close  quarters  appealed 
to  me.  Aside  from  that,  I  saw  a  chance  to  turn  up 
a  big  story  for  my  paper,  for  it  was  my  intention 
to  get  the  goods  on  the  gang  and,  eventually,  hand  it 
over  to  the  police.  But" — and  a  rueful  smile 
wrinkled  Granger's  face — "I  soon  discovered  that 
one  can't  play  with  fire  without  getting  scorched." 

"That  explains,"  mumbled  the  Phantom  thought- 
fully, at  the  same  time  extending  the  communication 
handed  him  by  the  Duke's  messenger.  "There's  a 
message  worked  into  the  design  which  is  readable 
only  under  the  lens.  It's  a  pleasant  reminder  of 
what  happens  to  traitors." 

"Yes.  I  know.  I  received  several  such  reminders 
before  you  came  along  and  borrowed  my  clothes  and 
name.  I  wasn't  really  a  traitor,  though.  I  merely 
refused  to  obey  certain  orders  they  gave  me." 


THE  BIG  STORY 


177 


"You  might  have  known  that  you  would  be  ex- 
pected to  take  part  in  the  gang's  activities.  You 
'didn't  expect  to  be  a  member  only  in  name?" 

"Well,  I  thought  I  could  stall  for  a  while,  till  I 
got  the  dope  I  wanted.  You  see,  I  was  hoping  they 
wouldn't  ask  me  to  do  any  of  the  rough  stuff  till  I 
had  been  a  member  for  a  while.  I  soon  discovered 
my  mistake." 

"And  so  the  big  story  will  never  materialize?" 

"I'm  afraid  it  won't.  My  obituary  is  the  only 
kind  of  story  that's  likely  to  grow  out  of  this  adven- 
ture of  mine.  The  Duke's  crew  doesn't  stand  for 
any  nonsense.  I've  been  told  that  members  who 
don't  obey  orders  usually  disappear  under  mysterious 
circumstances.  I  never  got  next  to  the  inner  circle 
of  the  gang.  I  suppose  they  didn't  trust  me  because 
I  took  a  drink  too  many  now  and  then.  Anyhow,  I 
didn't  get  the  stuff  I  was  after.  I  was  a  sort  of  pro- 
bationer, reporting  to  one  of  the  big  chief's  lieuten- 
ants, and  I  didn't  get  as  much  as  a  glimpse  of  the 
inner  sanctum." 

"Too  bad,  Granger."  The  disappointment  writ- 
ten on  the  reporter's  face  seemed  so  ludicrous  that 
the  Phantom  could  not  repress  a  smile.  "Maybe  it 
isn't  too  late  yet.  By  the  way,"  starting  suddenly 
from  his  chair,  "have  you  any  idea  where  Helen 
Hardwick  is?" 

For  a  moment  or  two  the  reporter  lay  rigid  on 
his  back;  then  he  jumped  up  and  stared  in  dum- 
founded  amazement  at  the  Phantom. 

"Why  do  you  ask?"  he  inquired  hoarsely,  after 
a  pause  during  which  each  man  looked  the  other 
straight  in  the  eye. 

"Answer  my  question  and  I'll  tell  you  my  reason 
for  asking  it." 


178      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


Granger  swallowed  hard.  "Has  anything  hap- 
pened to  Miss  Hardwick?" 

"She  has  disappeared.  Left  her  home  two  days 
ago  and  hasn't  been  heard  from  since.  Her  father 
has  asked  the  police  to  search  for  her." 

"Good  Lord!"  Granger  groaned.  "This  is 
awful!" 

The  Phantom  gripped  his  arm.  "Tell  me  what 
you  know,"  he  commanded.  "Your  looks  show  that 
you  are  not  entirely  ignorant  of  the  matter." 

The  reporter's  face  twitched.  "I  can  guess  what's 
happened  to  her,"  he  declared,  speaking  in  thick  ac- 
cents, "but  I  haven't  the  least  idea  where  she  is." 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  has  happened  to  her?" 

"She's  been  kid — kidnaped."  As  if  to  steady  his 
nerves,  Granger  picked  up  a  cigarette  and  lighted  it. 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"Because  I" — Granger  drew  in  a  whiff  of  smoke 
— "because  I  know  the  Duke's  crowd  wanted  her 
abducted.  They  asked  me  to  do  it,  and  I  balked.  I 
couldn't — well,  it  simply  went  against  the  grain  to 
do  a  thing  like  that.  It  was  my  refusal  to  do  as  they 
told  me  that  got  me  in  bad  with  the  gang." 

The  Phantom's  blood  was  slowly  receding  from 
his  face.  For  a  moment  he  sat  rigid,  lips  tightly  com- 
pressed, as  if  stunned.  "Why  did  the  Duke's  crowd 
want  Miss  Hardwick  kidnaped?" 

"That  I  can't  tell  you.  The  leaders  simply  issue 
orders;  they  never  explain  their  motives.  I  haven't 
the  faintest  idea  what  their  reason  for  abducting 
Miss  Hardwick  could  be." 

Silence  fell  between  them.  The  Phantom's  steely 
gaze  continued  to  search  the  other's  face.  Though 
;evidently  shocked  by  the  news  of  Miss  Hardwick's 
Sdisappea ranee,  the  reporter  did  not  once  lower  His! 
Seyes. 


THE  BIG  STORY 


179 


"They  must  have  got  somebody  else  to  rdo  it  after 
I  refused,"  he  muttered,  slowly  getting  a  grip  ort 
himself.    "Wish  I  had  a  drink." 

The  Phantom  was  hardly  listening.  His  knitted 
brows  told  that  his  mind  was  struggling  with  a 
problem. 

"Know  an  officer  named  Pinto?"  he  asked  ab- 
ruptly. 

"I  think  I've  heard  of  him." 

The  Phantom  gave  a  brief  summary  of  his  adven- 
tures since  arriving  in  the  city.  Granger  listened 
attentively,  his  eyes  expressing  a  mingling  of  aston- 
ishment and  admiration.  They  opened  wide  as  the 
narrator  described  the  scene  in  the  storeroom  and 
Pinto's  peculiar  behavior,  and  he  chuckled  appre- 
ciatively at  the  account  of  the  impostor's  visit  to  the 
Sphere  office. 

"That's  the  Phantom  all  over!"  he  remarked 
when  the  story  was  finished.  "It's  the  nerviest  thing 
I  ever  heard  of.  But  what  you  have  told  me  only 
puts  a  few  extra  kinks  in  the  mystery." 

The  Phantom  nodded  thoughtfully.  "How  well 
rdo  you  know  Miss  Hardwick?" 

"Scarcely  at  all.  I  have  never  met  her.  She 
called  me  up  at  the  Sphere  office  the  day  after  the 
murder  and  asked  me  a  lot  of  questions.  I  referred 
her  to  Doctor  Bimble." 

"So  she  told  me." 

"Bimble  is  a  nut,  but  he  has  done  several  brilliant 
things  along  lines  of  criminology.  I  was  busy  the 
day  Miss  Hardwick  called  me  up,  and  I  got  a  little 
jolt  when  she  told  me  her  name.  The  thing  was 
natural  enough,  of  course,  but  it  seemed  a  bit  weird 
to  be  talking  to  the  person  I  had  been  asked  to  kid- 
nap. Well,  I  thought  the  easiest  way  to  dispose  o£ 
her  was  to  suggest  that  she  see  Bimble." 


180      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


The  Phantom  looke'd  puzzled.  "You  never  saw 
Miss  Hardwick,  and  you  have  talked  with  her  only 
over  the  telephone,"  he  murmured.  "That  being 
the  case,  I  wonder  why  Pinto  asked  me,  while  we 
were  in  the  storeroom  this  morning,  if  I  knew  what 
had  become  of  Miss  Hardwick." 

"Rumor  has  it  that  a  romantic  attachment  exists 
between  Miss  Hardwick  and  the  Gray  Phantom. 
Pinto  must  have  heard  something  about  it." 

"But  at  the  time  he  put  the  question  he  had  not 
the  faintest  idea  that  I  was  the  Gray  Phantom.  He 
still  thought  I  was  Thomas  Granger.  It  was  my 
way  of  responding  to  the  question  that  aroused  his 
suspicions.  Now,  he  must  have  had  some  reason 
for  supposing  that  Thomas  Granger  knew  something 
of  what  had  happened  to  Miss  Hardwick." 

Granger  considered.  "Miss  Hardwick  may  have 
told  him  about  consulting  me.  But  I  think  it  just  as 
likely  that  Pinto  was  playing  a  bit  of  clever  strategy 
— that  he  had  already  suspected  your  identity  and 
sprung  that  question  about  Miss  Hardwick  in  the 
hope  that  you  would  betray  yourself." 

"Perhaps."  The  reporter's  theory  seemed  so 
natural  that  the  Phantom  wondered  why  it  had  not 
occurred  to  him  before.  "If  that  was  his  purpose, 
the  trick  worked  beautifully.  Tell  me,  was  it  before 
or  after  the  murder  of  Gage  that  the  Duke's  men 
came  to  you  with  the  kidnaping  proposition?" 

Granger  stared  hard  for  an  instant;  then  a  glint 
of  admiration  appeared  in  his  eyes.  "Gray  Phan- 
tom, you  ought  to  have  been  a  detective.  That's  as 
neat  a  piece  of  mental  acrobatics  as  I've  seen  in 
many  a  day.  The  proposal  came  to  me  a  few  days 
before  Gage  was  murdered." 

"But  the  two  plots  might  have  been  hatched  simul- 
taneously?" 


THE  BIG  STORY 


181 


"They  might.  I  see  what  you  are  driving  at. 
You  think  the  two  plots  were  related  to  a  single; 
object.   Perhaps  you  are  right." 

"Granger,  you  don't  think  I  murdered  Gage?" 

"No,"  after  a  long  pause;  "but  neither  can  I  tell 
you  who  did.  You,  of  course,  are  going  on  the  pre- 
sumption that  Pinto  is  the  culprit." 

The  Phantom  looked  a  trifle  bewildered.  The' 
reporter  had  read  his  mind. 

Granger  chuckled.  "I  can  see  in  which  direction 
your  mind  is  working.  You  think  the  bolted  door 
and  other  circumstances  prove  that  no  one  but  Pinto 
could  have  committed  the  murder.  You  believe  that 
after  killing  Gage  he  murdered  the  housekeeper  in: 
order  to  silence  her.  Pinto's  queer  conduct,  espe- 
cially the  stunt  he  pulled  off  in  the  storeroom  this 
morning,  is  sufficient  proof,  to  your  way  of  thinking, 
and  you  base  your  entire  case  on  the  guess  that  Pinto 
is  a  member  of  the  Duke's  gang." 

"Don't  you  agree  with  me?  I  read  between  the: 
lines  of  your  stories  in  the  Sphere  that  you  did  not 
share  the  generally  accepted  opinion." 

Granger  looked  up  quickly.  "The  devil  you  did* 
I  didn't  mean  to  air  my  private  opinions.  It  must 
have  been  a  subconscious  process.  To  be  perfectly; 
frank,  I  don't  know  whether  I  agree  with  you  or 
not.  I  have  an  idea  of  my  own  on  the  subject,  but 
it's  vague  as  yet.    Maybe  I'll  tell  you  later." 

The  Phantom  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "The  mys- 
tery of  the  murders  doesn't  interest  me  particularly 
just  at  present.  Granger,  if  you  were  in  my  position, 
how  would  you  go  about  finding  Miss  Hardwick?" 

The  reporter  considered  for  a  long  time.  "My 
first  step  would  be  to  get  in  touch  with  the  Duke's 
gang  and  try  to  ascertain  where  Miss  Hardwick  is 
being  concealed.   That's  a  large  order,  and  you  will 


182      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


find  it  fairly  exciting.  The  Duke,  I've  been  told, 
hates  you  as  he  never  hated  anyone  before,  and  he's 
almost  as  dangerous  behind  prison  bars  as  outside. 
He  froths  at  the  mouth  whenever  he  mentions  your 
name  to  the  other  prisoners.  Your  borrowed  per- 
sonality won't  give  you  a  great  deal  of  protection, 
'for  there  are  a  lot  of  sharp-eyed  men  in  the  Duke's 
crowd,  and,  besides,  you're  in  almost  as  great  danger 
whether  you  appear  as  the  Gray  Phantom  or  as 
Tommie  Granger." 

The  Phantom  waved  his  hand  deprecatingly.  "I 
have  considered  all  that.  The  question  is,  how  am 
I  to  get  in  contact  with  the  gang."  He  peered  re- 
flectively at  the  man  on  the  couch;  then  an  idea 
came  to  him.  "How  did  the  heads  of  the  organiza- 
tion communicate  with  you?  To  whom  did  you  re- 
port and  from  whom  did  you  receive  your  orders?" 

"From  my  acquaintance  of  the  Turkish  coffee 
house." 

"The  piratical-looking  fellow?"' 
Granger  nodded. 
"How  can  I  find  him?" 

"The  coffee  joint  is  in  Catharine  Street,  not  far 
from  East  Broadway.  You  can  easily  locate  it,  and 
you  will  probably  find  your  man  there  about  ten  or 
'eleven  at  night.  But  hadn't  you  better  take  me 
along?" 

The  Phantom  shook  his  head  emphatically. 
"You  have  just  told  me  to  what  extremes  you  are 
willing  to  go  in  order  to  get  a  good  story  for  your 
paper.  The  capture  of  the  Gray  Phantom  would 
make  an  even  bigger  story  than  the  one  you  were 
after.  I  can't  quite  trust  you,  Granger.  You  love 
your  liquor  not  wisely  but  too  well,  and  you're  likely 
to  give  the  show  away.  Besides,  it  wouldn't  do  for 
us  two  to  be  seen  together." 


THE  BIG  STORY 


183 


"That's  so,"  said  Granger  resignedly.  "Well, 
anyhow,  you  might  send  me  something  for  a  bracer." 

The  Phantom  promised  to  try.  He  got  up  and 
rapped  on  the  wall,  eyeing  Granger  steadily  as  he 
stepped  through  the  opening  that  appeared  as  if  by 
magic.  But  the  reporter,  evidently  realizing  that 
any  attempt  to  escape  would  be  useless,  made  no 
move. 

An  opium  lamp  was  sizzling  in  a  corner  of  the 
room.  At  a  table  sat  Peng  Yuen,  his  face  as  im- 
passive as  granite.  If  he  had  overheard  any  part  of 
the  conversation  he  showed  no  sign  of  it. 

"You  need  food  and  sleep,"  he  remarked  tone- 
lessly,  pointing  to  the  table,  on  which  a  meal  was 
spread  out. 

The  Phantom  thanked  him  and  sat  down.  He  was 
famished  and  fagged  out,  and  he  could  accomplish 
nothing  until  night  came,  so  he  gladly  accepted  the 
Chinaman's  hospitality.  As  he  ate,  Peng  Yuen  re- 
garded him  stolidly  while  he  smoked  his  acrid  pipe 
of  li-un.  He  did  not  speak  until  the  Phantom  had 
finished  his  meal. 

44  'The  Book  of  the  Unknown  Philosopher,'  "  he 
remarked,  without  looking  directly  at  his  guest,  "says 
that  the  overwise  sometimes  go  far  afield  in  search 
of  truths  that  may  be  found  at  home." 

The  Phantom  looked  up,  bewildered.  "I  suppose 
there  is  a  priceless  gem  of  wisdom  hidden  some- 
where in  that  sentence,  but  I  don't  see  how  it  can 
apply  to  me." 

The  Chinaman  gave  a  queer  laugh,  half  chuckle 
and  half  grunt,  and  deep  in  the  almond-shaped  eyes 
lurked  a  faint,  shrewd  twinkle. 


CHAPTER  XX 


THE  MISSING  SKELETONS 

DUSK  was  falling  as  the  Phantom,  refreshed  by 
Peng  Yuen's  excellent  cooking  and  several 
hours  of  sound  sleep,  left  the  shop  in  Pell 
Street  and  cautiously  picked  his  way  through  the  reek 
and  noise  of  the  Chinese  quarter.  He  still  felt  a 
twinge  of  apprehension  whenever  he  thought  of 
Helen  Hardwick,  but  his  nerves  were  steady  once 
more,  and  he  had  the  springy  step  and  the  clear, 
alert  eye  of  the  man  who  feels  sure  of  his  ability 
to  meet  any  emergency. 

His  fears  were  allayed  somewhat  by  the  comfort- 
ing thought  that  Helen  was  as  capable  and  keen- 
witted as  she  was  reckless  and  audacious.  She  was 
what  the  Phantom  termed  a  thoroughbred.  She  had 
nerve,  spirit,  and  subtlety,  and  on  several  occasions 
she  had  evinced  an  amazing  capacity  for  handling  a 
difficult  situation.  Besides,  she  had  a  robust  vitality, 
and  an  athletic  physique  that  in  no  wise  marred  her 
womanly  charms. 

The  Phantom  walked  slowly,  turning  the  complex 
situation  over  in  his  mind,  for  it  was  still  t6o  early 
to  go  to  the  coffee  house  in  Catharine  Street.  At  a 
corner  news  stand  he  bought  an  evening  paper,  glanc- 
ing at  the  headlines  as  he  walked  along.  The  murder 
of  the  housekeeper  was  given  glaring  prominence 
because  of  the  general  belief  that  it  had  been  per- 
petrated by  the  Gray  Phantom.    The  motives  as- 

184 


THE  MISSING  SKELETONS  185 


"cribecl  to  him  were  somewhat  sketchy,  but  the  police 
seemed  convinced  that  he  was  bent  on  a  campaign 
of  terror,  and  there  was  anxious  speculation  as  to 
where  his  bloodstained  hand  would  appear  next.  lit 
the  meantime,  the  search  was  being  continued  at 
fever  heat,  and  the  detective  bureau  expected  to 
make  an  important  announcement  within  a  few 
hours. 

The  Phantom  smiled  as  he  read.  He  had  ex- 
pected that  the  death  of  the  housekeeper  would  be 
charged  to  him,  and  he  had  drawn  fortitude  from 
the  firm  belief  that  in  a  short  time  he  would  prove 
his  innocence. 

The  odd  predicament  in  which  Pinto  had  been 
found  was  described  facetiously  and  at  great  length. 
The  paper  treated  it  as  a  mystery  that  might  not  be 
solved  until  the  officer,  who  had  been  taken  to  a 
hospital  suffering  from  a  severe  concussion  of  the 
brain,  recovered  consciousness.  His  partner  in  the 
droll  situation  had  stubbornly  refused  to  render  any 
explanation,  and  was  being  held  for  investigation 
pending  Pinto's  recovery.  He  had  an  unsavory 
record,  according  to  the  police,  and  was  known  in 
the  underworld  as  "Dan  the  Dope." 

The  Phantom  was  satisfied.  From  Dan  the  Dope 
he  had  nothing  to  fear,  and  Pinto,  even  if  he  were 
inclined  to  tell  what  he  knew,  would  not  be  able  to 
speak  for  some  time.  He  was  passably  safe  as  far 
as  the  police  were  concerned,  and  a  little  extra  cau- 
tion and  vigilance  would  checkmate  the  designs  of 
the  Duke's  henchman.  As  far  as  he  was  able  to  tell, 
neither  side  suspected  that  the  Gray  Phantom  was 
masquerading  as  Thomas  Granger. 

He  had  still  more  than  an  hour  to  while  away, 
and  a  hazy  thought  in  the  back  of  his  mind  guided 
his  steps  in  the  direction  of  Doctor  Bimble's  house. 


186      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


Everything  seemed  to  indicate  that  Helen  had  disap- 
peared shordy  after  leaving  the  anthropologist's 
laboratory,  and  he  might  be  able  to  pick  up  some 
clew  in  the  neighborhood  that  would  help  him  to 
trace  her  movements.  He  looked  about  him  cau- 
tiously as  he  walked  along,  surmising  that  the  vicinity 
was  being  watched  by  spies  of  the  Duke. 

At  the  corner  nearest  the  Bimble  residence  he 
turned  into  a  cigar  store  and  purchased  a  package 
of  cigarettes.  He  loitered  near  the  door  while  smok- 
ing one,  amusing  himself  by  studying  the  faces  of 
the  passers-by,  and  presently  a  tall,  angular  figure 
approached  from  the  other  end  of  the  block.  At  a 
glimpse  the  Phantom  had  recognized  the  inscrutable 
features  of  Jerome,  the  anthropologist's  servant. 
The  man  walked  hurriedly,  looking  straight  ahead, 
and  in  a  few  moments  he  was  out  of  sight. 

A  vagrant  impulse  told  the  Phantom  to  start  in 
pursuit  of  him  and  see  whither  he  was  bound,  but  he 
realized  that  he  had  no  reason  for  doing  so.  He 
had  sensed  something  mysterious  about  Bimble  and 
his  servant,  but  his  interest  in  them  was  little  more 
than  an  idle  curiosity.  If  he  had  any  suspicions  at 
all,  they  were  of  the  intangible  and  intuitive  sort  and 
afforded  him  no  basis  for  action. 

After  a  few  minutes  another  figure  appeared  down 
the  block,  and  the  Phantom  pressed  close  to  the  wall 
at  his  back.  Even  at  a  distance  he  recognized  the 
enormous  head,  the  jutting  stomach,  and  the  ab- 
surdly thin  legs  of  Doctor  Bimble.  With  a  beatific 
smile  on  his  face,  and  looking  neither  to  right  nor 
left,  the  anthropologist  walked  past  him,  evidently 
bound  in  the  same  direction  as  his  servant. 

Again  the  Phantom  felt  an  instinctive  urge  to 
follow.  It  struck  him  as  rather  queer  that  master 
and  servant  had  not  come  out  together,  but  then  he 


THE  MISSING  SKELETONS  187 


told  himself  that  the  circumstance  was  probably 
meaningless  and  that  his  imagination  was  magnify- 
ing trifles.  He  crossed  to  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street  and  turned  east,  scanning  the  dark  front  of 
the  Bimble  house  as  he  strolled  along. 

Coming  directly  opposite  the  residence,  he  paused 
in  the  doorway  of  a  delicatessen  store  and  looked 
across  the  street,  scrutinizing  the  gloomy  and  unpre- 
possessing dwelling  with  an  interest  for  which  he 
could  not  account.  It  seemed  strange  that  Doctor 
Bimble  should  have  chosen  such  an  unattractive 
location,  but  he  remembered  that  the  scientist  had 
said  something  about  wishing  to  live  in  an  out-of-the- 
way  place  where  he  would  be  safe  against  intrusions 
on  his  privacy  and  where  he  could  conduct  his  re- 
searches in  peace  and  quiet. 

The  house,  flanked  by  a  lodging  house  on  one  side 
and  on  the  other  by  a  three-story  structure  of  resi- 
dential appearance,  whose  boarded-up  windows  and 
doors  hinted  that  it  had  stood  vacant  for  some  time, 
was  dark  from  attic  to  basement.  Presumably 
Doctor  Bimble  and  his  man  were  out  for  the  evening. 
The  house  and  its  neighbors  on  each  side  held  the 
Phantom's  gaze  with  a  persistence  that  he  could  not 
understand.  He  sensed  an  incongruity  of  some  kind, 
and  for  a  while  he  tried  in  vain  to  analyze  it.  Fi- 
nally, as  he  centered  his  attention  on  the  building 
to  the  west,  the  one  with  the  boarded  windows  and 
'doors,  it  came  to  him.  It  seemed  strange  that  a 
structure  of  that  kind  should  be  standing  vacant  in 
the  midst  of  a  housing  famine,  when  even  the  least 
'desirable  dwellings  commanded  extravagant  prices. 

The  Phantom  laughed,  a  little  disgusted  with  him- 
self for  allowing  another  meaningless  trifle  to  per- 
plex him.  As  likely  as  not  the  house  was  vacant  for 
the  simple  and  sufficient  reason  that  it  had  been  con- 


188      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


demned  by  the  building  commissioner.  His  gaze 
wandered  to  the  door  of  the  Bimble  residence,  and  a 
disturbing  thought  caused  the  chuckle  to  die  in  his 
throat. 

Only  the  other  day  Helen  Hardwick  had  walked 
out  of  that  door,  he  remembered,  and  from  that 
moment  on  her  movements  were  veiled  behind  a 
curtain  of  mystery.  Which  way  had  she  turned, 
what  had  happened  to  her,  and  where  was  she  now? 
Had  she  been  forcibly  abducted  as  she  stepped  from 
the  house,  or  had  someone  lured  her  into  a  trap? 

There  had  been  nothing  about  her  disappearance 
in  the  newspaper  the  Phantom  had  just  read,  and  he 
surmised  that  Mr.  Hardwick  had  used  what  influ- 
ence he  had  to  keep  the  matter  out  of  the  press.  The 
door  across  the  street  still  held  his  gaze;  and  of  a 
sudden,  out  of  the  jumble  of  his  fears  and  perplexi- 
ties, came  another  harassing  thought. 

What  if  Helen  had  never  walked  out  of  the  door 
across  the  way?  What  if  she  should  still  be  inside 
the  house? 

The  Phantom's  eyes  narrowed  as  the  suspicion 
came  to  him.  It  was  groundless,  so  far  as  he  could 
see,  and  there  was  no  reasoning  behind  it.  It  had 
come  out  of  nowhere,  like  a  stray  figment  of  the 
imagination,  yet  it  tormented  him  with  an  insistence 
that  he  could  not  shake  off. 

He  walked  to  the  end  of  the  block,  then  crossed 
the  street  and  moved  up  the  side  on  which  the  Bimble 
house  stood.  There  were  a  few  pedestrians  in  the 
street,  and  to  attempt  to  force  the  main  door  might 
prove  unsafe.  The  basement  entrance  was  dark,  and 
in  a  moment,  concealed  by  the  shadows,  he  was  at 
work  on  the  lock.  It  yielded  so  easily  to  his  deft 
manipulation  that  he  could  understand  how  the 


THE  MISSING  SKELETONS  189 


prowlers  of  whom  Bimble  had  complained  had 
managed  to  enter  the  house. 

Pulling  the  door  shut,  he  took  out  his  electric 
flash,  determined  to  settle  his  suspicions  by  making 
a  systematic  search  of  the  house.  He  proceeded 
swiftly  but  with  care,  searching  every  nook  and 
cranny  and  occasionally  tapping  the  walls  and  floors 
to  make  sure  there  were  no  hollow  spaces.  He  ex- 
plored cellar  and  basement  without  finding  anything 
of  suggestive  nature,  then  walked  up  the  same  stair- 
way he  had  ascended  after  his  first  trip  through  the 
tunnel. 

He  was  now  in  the  laboratory,  sweeping  floor 
and  walls  with  the  electric  torch.  At  ffrst  glance  it 
looked  exactly  as  it  had  when  Helen  met  him  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs  with  a  leveled  pistol,  yet  he  sensed 
a  difference  almost  at  once.  His  eyes  flitted  over 
the  long  workbench  with  its  collection  of  chemical 
apparatus,  over  the  black-framed  photographs  and 
X-ray  prints,  and  then  he  glanced  at  the  tall  cages 
along  the  wall,  in  which  the  skeletons  stood,  erect  and 
grim  as  ghostly  sentinels. 

It  was  then  his  mind  grasped  the  difference.  On 
his  first  visit  there  had  been  at  least  a  dozen  skeletons 
in  the  room;  now  he  counted  only  seven.  The  fa- 
mous Raschenell,  to  whom  Bimble  had  pointed  with 
so  much  pride,  was  among  the  missing  ones.  He 
paused  only  for  a  moment  to  wonder  what  had  be- 
come of  the  others,  for  Bimble  and  the  servant  might 
return  at  any  time  and  interrupt  his  search,  and  he 
wished  to  be  at  the  Turkish  coffee  house  not  later 
than  half  past  ten. 

He  inspected  room  after  room,  but  without  result, 
Anally  mounting  to  the  attic  and  making  the  same 
thorough  investigation  there.    He  had  found  noth- 


190      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


ing  whatever  to  reward  him  for  his  efforts.  He 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  his  suspicions  had  been 
entirely  unfounded,  for  if  they  had  had  any  basis 
in  fact  his  investigation  would  have  uncovered  some 
clew  or  hint  pointing  in  that  direction.  One  thing 
had  been  accomplished,  however,  was  his  reflection 
as  he  walked  down  the  stairs.  He  had  eliminated 
Doctor  Bimble  from  the  range  of  his  suspicions  and 
would  waste  no  more  time  and  effort  trying  to  ex- 
plain the  eccentricities  of  a  scientist. 

Deciding  to  leave  the  way  he  had  entered,  he 
crossed  the  laboratory  and  moved  toward  the  stairs. 
With  his  hand  on  the  doorknob,  he  looked  back  and 
once  more  let  his  electric  torch  play  over  the  floor 
and  walls.  Again,  without  exactly  knowing  why, 
he  counted  the  cages,  vaguely  feeling  that  there  was 
a  hidden  significance  in  the  depletion  of  the  grisly 
company. 

Finally,  he  extinguished  his  flash  and  resolutely 
turned  away.  Again  he  was  berating  himself  for 
bothering  his  mind  over  trivial  things.  Doubtless 
Doctor  Bimble  had  a  sound  and  simple  reason  for 
removing  a  number  of  the  skeletons.  As  he  walked 
down  the  basement  stairs  he  resolved  to  banish  the. 
anthropologist  and  his  collection  from  his  thoughts. 

An  odd  sense  of  apprehension  took  hold  of  him 
as  he  reached  the  bottom  step.  He  looked  about 
him  sharply;  the  darkness  was  so  thick  that  he  could 
see  nothing.  He  pricked  up  his  ears  and  listened,  but 
he  could  detect  no  sound  except  those  coming  from 
the  street.  Yet  he  had  a  feeling  that  he  was  not 
alone,  that  another  being  was  lurking  somewhere  in 
the  darkness.  It  was  a  familiar  sensation  and  he 
had  learned  to  heed  its  warning,  for  he  had  experi- 
enced it  before  in  moments  of  danger. 

He  stepped  down  on  the  floor,  at  the  same  instant 


THE  MISSING  SKELETONS  191 


reaching  for  the  pistol  he  had  taken  from  Dan  the 
Dope.  Before  he  could  draw  the  weapon  a  voice 
spoke  sharply: 

"Stay  right  where  you  are,  friend!" 

Then  a  click  sounded,  followed  by  a  blaze  of  light. 
He  turned  quickly  in  the  direction  whence  the  voice 
had  come.  He  saw  the  glint  of  a  pistol  barrel 
pointed  toward  him  with  a  steady  hand,  and  behind 
the  pistol  stood  Lieutenant  Culligore. 


CHAPTER  XXI 


FINGER  PRINTS 

THE  'detective's  face  was  as  dull  and  unimpas- 
sioned  as  a  caricature  carved  out  of  wood. 
He  stood  pointing  the  pistol  with  a  listless  air, 
and  his  eyes  were  heavy  and  sluggish,  as  if  he  were 
not  fully  awake.  He  lowered  the  weapon  almost 
as  soon  as  he  saw  the  Phantom's  face,  but  did  not 
put  it  out  of  sight. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Granger."  He  spoke  in  a  drawl, 
and  there  might  have  been  the  faintest  trace  of  dis- 
appointment in  his  tones.  "I  thought  it  might  be 
someone  else." 

"The  Gray  Phantom,  for  instance?" 
"Well,  maybe.    There's  no  reason,  though,  why 
the  Phantom  should  be  prowling  around  here,  is 
there?" 

"Apparently  not."  The  Phantom  advanced  leis- 
urely and  looked  sharply  at  the  speaker's  stolid  face. 
The  question  had  been  spoken  in  a  tone  faintly  sug- 
gestive of  an  underlying  meaning.  "It  seems  both 
of  us  are  taking  advantage  of  the  absence  of  Doctor 
Bimble  and  Jerome  to  do  a  little  investigating  on 
the  quiet." 

Culligore  yawned  ostentatiously.  "The  doc  ought 
to  have  new  locks  put  on  his  doors.  It's  too  easy  for 
people  to  get  in." 

"He  is  a  simple  and  unsuspecting  soul.    But  tell 

192 


FINGER  PRINTS 


193 


me,  lieutenant,  how  it  happens  that  the  Phantom's 
trail  leads  into  Doctor  Bimble's  basement." 
"Does  it?" 

"Well,  I  don't  suppose  you  would  be  here  unless 
it  did.  Your  object  in  coming  here  wasn't  to  inter- 
view the  skeletons  upstairs,  was  it?" 

Culligore  laughed  softly.  "I  might  put  the  same 
question  to  you." 

"Then  we're  on  an  even  footing.  And,  since  we 
don't  seem  to  get  anywhere,  we  might  as  well  drop 
the  subject  of  our  mutual  presence  here.  Each  of 
us  can  take  it  for  granted  that  the  other  has  a  tip 
which  he  wants  to  keep  to  himself.  Seen  anything 
of  the  Gray  Phantom  lately?" 

"Not  exactly." 

"What's  the  idea  of  the  'exactly'?  You  either 
have  seen  him  or  you  haven't  seen  him.  Which  is 
it?'  ' 

"Neither  the  one  nor  the  other,"  said  Culligore 
mysteriously.  "With  a  man  like  the  Phantom  you 
can  never  be  sure.  Even  when  you  think  you  see 
him,  he  isn't  always  there.  Say  that  was  a  queer 
case  you  tipped  me  off  on  this  morning." 

"It  was.  Simple  enough,  though,  as  far  as  the: 
murder  of  the  housekeeper  is  concerned.  Appar- 
ently there's  not  the  slightest  [doubt  that  the  Phan- 
tom did  it." 

"Think  so?" 

The  two  words,  spoken  in  low  and  casual  tones, 
caused  the  Phantom  to  raise  his  brows.  "Don't 
you?" 

Culligore  tilted  his  head  to  one  side  and  squinte'd 
vacantly  into  space.  "Things  aren't  always  what 
they  seem,"  he  drawlingly  observed.  "I've  been  see- 
sawing up  and  down  ever  since  I  was  turned  loose 


194      THE  GRAY  PHANTOMS  RETURN 


on  this  case.  One  hour  I  feel  dead  sure  the  Phan- 
tom did  it;  the  next  I  don't  know  what  to  think." 

"All  the  facts  seem  to  point  to  the  Phantom's 
guilt." 

"That's  just  the  trouble."  Culligore  scowled  a 
little.  "There's  such  a  thing  as  having  too  many 
facts.  If  the  evidence  wasn't  so  perfect  I'd  be  more 
sure  of  my  ground.  As  it  is,  I  wouldn't  bet  more 
than  a  pair  of  Bowery  spats  on  the  Phantom's  guilt. 
I'm  not  sure  he  killed  either  Gage  or  the  house- 
keeper." 

The  Phantom  eyed  him  intently,  trying  to  read  his 
mind. 

"I  see,"  he  murmured.  "You  don't  want  to  be- 
lieve the  Phantom  has  fallen  so  low  as  to  " 

"You're  talking  rot!"  snorted  the  lieutenant,  as 
if  touched  on  a  sensitive  spot.  "What  I  want  to 
believe  makes  no  difference.  If  I  could  lay  my; 
hands  on  the  Phantom  this  minute,  I'd  put  the  links 
on  him  so  quick  it  would  take  his  breath  away.  Even 
if  he  didn't  kill  Gage  and  Mrs.  Trippe,  there  are 
one  or  two  other  things  we  can  send  him  up  for." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  the  Phantom  thoughtfully. 
"Much  as  you  would  hate  to  pinch  him,  you  can't  let 
sentiment  interfere  with  duty." 

"Sentiment  be  damned!"  grumbled  the  lieutenant, 
reddening  a  trifle  as  he  saw  the  knowing  grin  on  the 
Phantom's  face.  "I  never  was  long  on  that  kind  of 
stuff.  By  the  way,  what's  your  opinion  of  the  case, 
Granger?" 

"I  haven't  any."  The  Phantom  wondered  what 
was  going  on  in  the  back  of  Culligore's  mind.  He 
knew  the  dull  features  were  a  mask  and  that  the 
lieutenant,  practicing  a  trick  cultivated  by  members 
of  his  profession,  was  studying  his  face  every  mo- 


FINGER  PRINTS 


195 


ment  without  appearing  to  'do  so.  "You  seem  to  be 
holding  something  back/'  he  added. 

"Think  so?"  Culligore  uttered  a  flat,  toneless 
chuckle.  "Aren't  you  holding  something  back  your- 
self? What's  the  use  trying  to  hog  it  all  for  your 
paper?" 

"Didn't  I  tip  you  off  on  the  doings  in  the  Gage 
house  this  morning?" 

"You  did,"  said  Culligore  dryly,  "and  I'm  still 
wondering  how  you  knew  about  them.  Did  you  just 
walk  in  on  a  hunch  and  discover  a  dead  woman,  and 
a  cop  chained  to  an  opium-eating  runt,  or  did  some- 
one put  you  wise  beforehand?" 

The  Phantom  felt  he  was  on  dangerous  ground. 
"It  was  only  a  hunch.  We  newspaper  men  have 
them,  you  know,  and  once  in  a  while  they  pan  out 
But  what  do  you  make  of  it,  Culligore?  How  do 
you  explain  the  cop  being  handcuffed  rp  Dan  the; 
Dope?" 

"I  don't  explain  it.  I  suppose  Pinto  will  tell  us 
how  it  happened  when  he  comes  to." 

"Think  there's  any  connection  between  the  hand- 
cuffed pair  and  the  murder  of  the  housekeeper?" 

"How  could  there  be?  The  medical  examiner 
said  the  housekeeper  must  have  been  dead  from 
twenty  to  thirty  hours  when  the  body  was  found. 
Besides,  where  do  you  find  any  connection  between 
a  murder  on  the  one  hand  and  a  cop  chained  to  a 
'dope  fiend  on  the  other?  To  my  way  of  thinking, 
the  two  cases  are  separate.  The  one  of  Pinto  and 
Dan  the  Dope  is  all  a  riddle,  and  the  only  clear 
thing  about  it  is  that  the  Phantom  had  a  hand  in  it." 

"The  Phantom?" 

"Yep.  The  Phantom  was  in  on  it.  Surprised, 
eh?  Well,  there  are  some  things  we  don't  tell  the 
newspapers,  and  this  was  one  of  them.   Just  how  the 


196      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


Phantom  figured  in  the  thing  I  can't  tell,  but  he  was 
in  the  Gage  house  last  night  or  early  in  the  morn- 
ing. Beats  the  dickens  how  that  fellow  can  walk 
past  our  noses  without  getting  caught." 

The  Phantom  stared.  He  did  not  think  he  had 
left  any  traces  of  his  connection  with  the  affair  at 
the  Gage  house,  and  Culligore's  statement  starded 
him  for  a  moment. 

uHow  do  you  know?"  he  asked,  getting  a  grip  on 
himself. 

"Finger  prints,"  said  the  lieutenant.  uThis  is  on 
the  q.  t.  I  examined  the  handcuffs,  and  there  were 
three  sets  of  prints  on  them,  showing  that  three  dif- 
ferent persons  had  handled  them.  There  were  only 
two  or  three  marks  of  each  set,  but  enough  to  iden- 
tify them.  One  set  was  Dan  the  Dope's,  the  other 
must  have  been  Pinto's,  and  the  third  was  the  Gray 
Phantom's." 

The  Phantom  bit  his  lip,  chiding  himself  for  hav- 
ing been  caught  off  his  guard.  He  might  have 
known  that  the  smooth  and  shiny  surface  of  the 
handcuffs  would  register  finger  prints,  but  he  had 
been  bodily  and  mentally  exhausted  at  the  time,  and 
his  habitual  sense  of  caution  had  failed  to  assert 
itself. 

"Wonder  what  the  Phantom  wras  up  to,"  he  mur- 
mured, feeling  a  trifle  uncomfortable  beneath  Culli- 
gore's covert  and  incessant  scrutiny. 

"Hard  telling.  Lots  of  queer  things  happen  in 
this  world."  Culligore  grinned  while  absently  toy- 
ing with  the  pistol.  "For  instance,  this  morning 
after  I  left  you  on  the  corner  " 

"You  had  me  shadowed,"  interrupted  the  Phan- 
tom.   "What  was  the  idea,  Culligore?" 

"Just  a  hunch.  My  man  trailed  you  to  the  Sphere, 
office.    Then,  thinking  you  wouldn't  be  out  for  a 


FINGER  PRINTS 


197 


while,  he  went  into  a  beanery  for  a  bite  and  a  cup 
of  coffee.  After  coming  out  he  hung  around  the 
entrance  to  the  Sphere  Building  for  a  while  longer, 
but  you  didn't  show  up.  Finally,  he  went  inside  and 
inquired  for  you.    They  told  him  you  had  left." 

Culligore  paused  for  a  moment.  He  was  turning 
the  pistol  in  his  hand  with  a  playful  air.  The  Phan- 
tom felt  a  curious  tension  taking  hold  of  his  body. 

"They  told  my  man,"  continued  the  lieutenant, 
speaking  very  softly,  "that  you  didn't  write  the  story 
yourself,  but  told  the  facts  to  a  reporter  named  Fes- 
senden.  As  I  understand  it,  they  gave  Fessenden  a 
new  desk  not  long  ago.  It's  a  nice-looking  piece  of 
furniture,  with  a  smooth,  glossy  finish.  Maybe  you 
noticed  it?" 

"No,  not  particularly,"  said  the  Phantom,  finding 
it  a  little  hard  to  keep  his  voice  steady.  The  role 
he  was  playing  had  claimed  all  his  thoughts  while 
he  was  in  the  Sphere  office,  and  he  had  not  noticed 
details. 

"Too  bad  you  didn't."  Culligore  was  still  speak- 
ing in  low,  purring  accents.  Gradually  and  without 
apparent  intent,  he  turned  the  muzzle  of  the  pistol 
until  it  pointed  to  the  Phantom's  chest.  "Well,  I 
understand  Fessenden  was  sitting  at  that  nice,  new 
desk  while  you  told  him  the  story,  and  you  were 
sitting  right  beside  him,  with  one  of  the  corners  of 
the  desk  toward  you.  Some  people  have  a  habit 
when  nervous  of  drumming  with  their  fingers  on 
whatever  object  is  before  them.  It's  a  bad  habit, 
Granger."  i 
t  The  Phantom  nodded.  A  thin  smile  played  about 
his  lips  and  his  eyes  glittered  like  tiny  points  of 
steel  between  half-closed  lids. 

"Very  bad  habit,  Granger.  Well,  my  man  saw 
finger  prints  on  the  smooth  and  shiny  surface  of  the 


198      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


desk,  right  where  you  had  been  sitting.  He  touched 
them  up  by  sprinkling  a  little  gray  powder  over 
them,  after  which  they  were  photographed.  It 
didn't  take  very  long  to  identify  them.  Steady  now ! 
This  little  toy  of  mine  can  be  real  ugly  when  it  gets 
mad.  What  I  want  you  to  explain  is  how  Tommie 
Granger's  fingers  happened  to  leave  the  Gray  Phan- 
tom's finger  prints  on  Fessenden's  desk." 


CHAPTER  XXII 


THE  PHANTOM  TURNS  A  SOMERSAULT 

THERE  was  a  humorous  glint  in  Lieutenant 
Culligore's  lazy,  mouse-colored  eyes  as  he 
noted  the  look  of  consternation  that  was 
slowly  creeping  into  the  Gray  Phantom's  face.  He 
drew  a  step  nearer,  and  now  the  menacing  muzzle 
was  less  than  six  feet  from  its  target.  There  was 
a  touch  of  carelessness  in  his  manner  of  handling 
the  weapon,  but  his  aim  was  sure  and  a  slight  pres- 
sure on  the  trigger  would  have  meant  death. 

But  the  Phantom's  look  of  dismay  was  not  due 
to  fear.  Many  a  time  he  had  laughed  in  the  face 
of  dangers  far  more  serious  than  the  present  one. 
The  thing  that  appalled  him  was  the  realization  that 
twice  within  a  few  Hours  he  had  committed  a  stupid 
blunder.  The  Gray  Phantom,  once  the  astutest  and* 
craftiest  of  rogues,  had  bungled  like  an  amateur. 

The  thought  was  galling.  Was  it  that  his  hand 
had  lost  its  old-time  finesse  and  his  mind  its  keen' 
edge,  or  had  his  mental  stress  and  fagged  nerves 
been  the  cause  of  his  bungling?  Again,  perhaps  he 
had  been  distracted  by  the  haunting  vision  of  a  pair 
of  troubled  brown  eyes. 

He  looked  hard  at  Culligore.  Some  faces  were 
like  an  open  book  to  him,  and  this  was  one  of  them. 
The  lieutenant  was  no  man's  fool.  Behind  the  mask 
of  dullness  and  stolidity  were  shrewdness  and  quick- 
ness of  wit,  an'd  he  knew  that  the  man  before  him 

199 


200      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


would  not  permit  private  inclinations  to  swerve  him 
from  his  duty.  Culligore  was  as  dangerous  an  ad- 
versary as  he  had  ever  faced.  But  there  was  still 
another  quality  behind  the  mask,  and  it  was  this 
that  gave  the  Phantom  his  cue. 

Quickly  he  looked  about  him.  The  way  to  the 
basement  door  was  barred  by  the  lieutenant,  but  the 
stairway  leading  to  the  laboratory  was  unobstructed. 
With  an  appearance  of  utmost  unconcern  the  Phan- 
tom turned  away  and  started  to  ascend  the  steps. 

"Stop !"  commanded  Culligore,  following  the  re- 
treating man's  movements  with  his  pistol.  "I'll  pop 
you  if  you  take  another  step." 

The  Phantom  stopped,  turned,  and  grinned.  uOh, 
no,  you  won't/'  he  drawled. 

"Can't  you  see  that  I've  got  you  covered?" 
"But  you  won't  shoot.    It  takes  a  particular  kind 
of  nerve  to  kill  a  defenseless  man  in  cold  blood,  and 
you  haven't  got  it.  Good-by." 

He  took  another  step,  but  a  short  and  peremptory 
"Halt!"  brought  him  to  a  stop.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  lieutenant's  tone  that  gave  him  pause. 
He  turned  and  looked  down. 

"You've  sized  me  up  just  about  right,"  admitted 
Culligore.  "I  can't  kill  a  man  who  hasn't  got  a 
chance  for  his  life.  But  if  you  move  another  step, 
you'll  get  a  slug  of  lead  in  your  leg.  If  you  think 
I'm  bluffing,  just  try." 

The  Phantom  hesitated.  The  words  and  the  tone 
left  no  room  for  doubt  as  to  the  speaker's  earnest- 
ness, and  even  a  slight  flesh  wound  wrould  hamper  the: 
Phantom's  movements  and  frustrate  his  plans.  He 
came  down  the  few  steps  he  had  covered  and  stood 
on  the  basement  floor. 

"All  right,  Culligore.  You  win  this  time,  but 
rdon't  think  for  a  moment  that  I'll  let  you  carry  this 


THE  PHANTOM  TURNS  A  SOMERSAULT  201 


joke  much  further.  I  have  very  strenuous  objections 
to  being  arrested  at  this  particular  time.  Mind  if  I 
smoke  a  cigarette?" 

"I  do,"  the  lieutenant  said  dryly.  "I  have  heard 
about  your  cute  little  ways,  and  I'm  not  taking  any 
chances.  You  don't  play  any  of  your  tricks  on  me, 
Mr.  Phantom." 

"You  surely  (don't  think  that  I'll  permit  you  to 
drag  me  off  to  a  cell?" 

"How  are  you  going  to  help  yourself?" 

"Why,  man,  it  can't  be  done!  It's  been  tried 
before,  you  know.  And  just  now  I  am  a  very  busy 
man  and  can't  afford  to  waste  time.  Besides,  what 
charge  do  you  propose  to  arrest  me  on?  Not  the 
murder  of  Gage  and  Mrs.  Trippe?" 

"There  are  other  charges  waiting  for  you  in  court. 
You've  been  having  a  gay  time  for  a  good  many 
years,  but  this  is  the  end  of  it.  You've  done  some 
very  fancy  wriggling  in  the  past,  but  you  can't 
wriggle  out  of  this." 

"Perhaps  not."  A  great  gloom  seemed  suddenly 
to  fall  over  the  Phantom.  "It  looks  as  though  you 
had  me,  Culligore.  A  man  can't  fight  the  whole 
New  York  police  force  single-handed.  All  you  have 
to  do  is  to  blow  your  whistle  and  " 

"Whistle  be  hanged!  I'm  not  going  to  give  you 
the  satisfaction  of  saying  that  it  took  a  regiment  to 
get  you.  I  mean  to  arrest  you  alone,  just  to  prove 
that  you're  not  as  smart  as  some  people  think." 

The  Phantom  glowed  inwardly.  His  adroit  and 
subtle  appeal  to  the  lieutenant's  pride  had  produced 
the  desired  effect.  Culligore  felt  so  sure  of  his  ad- 
vantage that  he  would  not  summon  help,  and  this 
was  an  important  point  in  the  Phantom's  favor.  Yet 
he  knew  the  situation  was  critical  enough.  On 
former  occasions  he  had  gambled  recklessly  with 


202      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


'death,  often  winning  through  sheer  fearlessness  and 
audacity,  but  much  more  than  his  life  was  at  stake 
now.  He  looked  in  vain  for  a  loophole  in  the  situ- 
ation. All  he  could  do  for  the  present  was  to  spar 
for  time. 

"I  see,"  he  murmured.  uThe  achievement  of  tak- 
ing the  Phantom  single-handed  would  put  a  gorgeous 
•feather  in  your  cap.  But  look  here,  Culligore. 
Fame  is  a  fine  thing,  but  you  can't  eat  it,  and  it  won't 
buy  clothes.  Isn't  it  just  as  important  to  find  the 
murderer  of  Mrs.  Trippe  and  Gage?" 

"I'll  attend  to  that,  too."  The  lieutenant  inserted 
a  hand  in  his  pocket  and  drew  out  a  pair  of  hand- 
cuffs.   "Out  with  your  hands,  Phantom." 

The  Phantom  promptly  put  his  hands  in  the 
pockets  of  his  trousers.  "Why  be  in  such  a  rush, 
Culligore?  You  know  I  can't  get  away  from  you 
so  long  as  you  keep  me  covered.  Let's  discuss  things 
a  bit.  You  don't  think  I  committed  those  mur- 
ders?" 

"Not  exacdy,"  said  the  detective  thoughtfully,  the 
steel  links  dangling  from  his  hand.  "Whatever  else 
you  may  be,  I  don't  think  you're  a  murderer." 

"And  that  shows  that  you  have  more  gray  matter 
than  some  of  your  colleagues." 

"Thanks,"  dryly;  "but  you'd  better  save  the  com- 
pliments. I  haven't  quite  made  up  my  mind  about 
the  murders  yet.  If  you  didn't  commit  them,  there 
are  a  lot  of  things  that  will  have  to  be  explained. 
The  threatening  letter,  for  instance." 

"Forged." 

"And  Gage's  dying  statement." 

"Pinto  lied,  or  else  Gage  was  mistaken." 

"Think  so?"  The  lieutenant's  upper  lip  brushed 
the  tip  of  his  nose.  "It's  a  queer  thing  that  nothing 
but  the  Maltese  cross  was  taken." 


THE  PHANTOM  TURNS  A  SOMERSAULT  203 


"That  was  only  a  detail  of  the  frame-up.  Listen, 
Culligore.  Isn't  it  your  idea  that  the  two  murders 
were  committed  by  one  and  the  same  person?" 

"It  looks  that  way,  but  " 

"Well,  then,  I  happen  to  know  who  killed  Mrs. 
Trippe,  because  I  was  there  when  it  happened." 

Culligore  stared;  and  the  Phantom  knew  he  had 
gained  another  point. 

"There  when  it  happened?  You  saw  the  murder 
committed?"  The  lieutenant  seemed  at  once 
amazed  and  incredulous.  "Just  where  were  you? 
In  the  storeroom?" 

"No;  the  murder  was  committed  in  Gage's  bed- 
room, and  the  body  was  afterward  removed  to  the 
storeroom  by  the  murderer." 

For  a  moment  Culligore's  astonishment  was  so 
great  that  he  almost  forgot  to  maintain  his  aim.  He 
gathered  himself  quickly,  but  his  face  bore  a  look 
of  bewilderment. 

"He  moved  the  body,  eh?  I  wonder  why.  If  the 
job  was  done  by  a  certain  person  I  have  in  mind, 
I  don't  see  what  object  he  could  have  in  carrying  the 
corpse  from  Gage's  bedroom  to  the  storeroom.  The 
natural  thing  would  have  been  to  leave  the  body  on 
the  spot.   You're  not  kidding  me?" 

"Absolutely  not."  The  Phantom  grinned  at  Cul- 
ligore's perplexity.  Evidently  the  lieutenant's 
theories  and  calculations  had  been  completely  upset 
by  what  he  had  just  heard.  "Who  is  the  certain 
person  you  had  in  mind,  Culligore?" 

"Never  mind  that.  Let  me  get  this  straight.  You 
were  in  Gage's  bedroom  when  Mrs.  Trippe  was 
murdered?" 

"Not  in  the  bedroom,  but — "  The  Phantom 
checked  himself  on  the  point  of  explaining  that  he 
had  witnessed  the  murder  from  his  place  of  conceal- 


204      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


ment  in  the  narrow  opening  back  of  the  window 
frame.  In  a  flash  it  'dawned  upon  him  that  he  had 
another  advantage  over  the  detective.  He  had  found 
the  loophole  in  the  situation  for  which  his  mind  had 
been  searching  for  the  past  ten  minutes.  Culligore, 
of  course,  was  not  aware  of  the  existence  of  the 
tunnel.  The  stairs  leading  to  the  cellar  were  at  the 
Phantom's  back.  If  he  could  elude  the  detective 
long  enough  to  slip  down  the  steps  and  crawl  into  the 
mouth  of  the  tunnel,  he  wTould  be  temporarily  safe. 
It  was  a  slender  chance,  but  he  had  no  other. 

" Where  were  you,  then?"  demanded  Culligore. 

"My  secret."  The  Phantom  assumed  a  myste- 
rious expression,  meanwhile  edging  ever  so  slightly 
toward  the  stairs  at  his  back.  "I  saw  Mrs.  Trippe 
and  she  saw  me.  She  was  in  a  terribly  frightened 
condition,  and  she  called  out  that  someone  was  kill- 
ing her.  Then,  of  a  sudden,  a  hand  appeared,  hold- 
ing a  knife.  Before  I  could  utter  a  word  or  move 
a  muscle,  the  knife  had  done  its  work." 

Culligore  muttered  something  under  his  breath. 
He  scanned  the  Phantom's  face  keenly,  but  what  he 
saw  evidently  convinced  him  of  the  narrator's  truth- 
fulness. A  noise,  scarcely  louder  than  the  falling 
of  a  pin,  sounded  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  The 
Phantom's  sensitive  ears  detected  it,  but  the  lieu- 
tenant appeared  to  have  heard  nothing. 

"Well,  what  happened  after  that?" 

The  Phantom  waited  for  a  moment  before  he 
answered.  A  draft  faint  as  a  breath  told  him  that 
the  door  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  had  been  opened. 
He  had  a  vague  impression  that  somebody  was  look- 
ing down  on  them,  and  he  wondered  whether  Doc- 
tor Bimble  or  Jerome  had  returned.  Not  the  slight- 
est flicker  in  his  face  showed  that  he  had  noticed 
anything. 


THE  PHANTOM  TURNS  A  SOMERSAULT  205 


"I  didn't  see  any  more.  The — the  curtain  fell  a 
moment  or  two  after  the  blow  was  struck." 

Culligore  regarded  him  narrowly.  Another  faint 
sound  came  from  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  in  the 
same  instant  the  draft  ceased,  indicating  that  the 
door  had  closed.  The  lieutenant,  his  every  faculty 
bent  to  the  task  of  ferreting  out  the  thoughts  in  the 
Phantom's  mind,  had  heard  nothing.  He  seemed  in- 
clined to  doubt  and  scoff,  but  a  stronger  instinct  com- 
pelled him  to  give  credence  to  the  story  he  had  just 
heard. 

"And  all  you  saw  of  the  murderer  was  a  hand 
and  a  knife?" 
"That  was  all." 

"Do  you  remember  the  woman's  exact  words?" 

The  Phantom  searched  his  memory  for  a  moment. 
"She  said:  'He's  killing  me!    He's  afraid  I'll  tell! 

He  locked  me  in  '    She  never  finished  the  last 

sentence,  but  she  had  said  enough.  Evidently,  the 
murderer  of  Gage  knew  that  the  housekeeper  was 
aware  of  his  guilt,  and  imprisoned  her  in  the  bed- 
room so  that  she  would  not  reveal  what  she  knew. 
Later  he  returned  with  a  knife  in  his  hand,  having 
decided  it  would  be  safer  to  kill  her.  The  house- 
keeper must  have  had  some  warning  of  his  arrival; 
perhaps  she  saw  or  heard  him  coming." 

Culligore  looked  as  though  he  had  a  baffling  prob- 
lem on  his  mind.  "Who  do  you  suppose  was  the 
'he'  she  referred  to?" 

"I  think  that's  fairly  plain.  She  had  previously 
made  it  known  that  she  suspected  Pinto  of  having 
murdered  her  employer." 

The  lieutenant  arched  his  brows  and  seemed  to 
be  revolving  a  new  idea  in  his  mind.  "Just  the  same, 
we  can't  be  sure  she  meant  Pinto,  as  long  as  she 
•didn't  mention  him  by  name.    The  fact  that  she 


206      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


suspected  him  once  'doesn't  really  prove  anything. 
Something  may  have  happened  in  the  meantime  that 
caused  her  to  change  her  opinion.  The  4he'  might 
have  been  an  entirely  different  person — maybe  some- 
body she'd  never  seen  before  and  whose  name  she 
didn't  know." 

"Possible,"  admitted  the  Phantom  thoughtfully. 
Culligore  had  turned  his  thoughts  into  a  new 
channel. 

"Besides,"  added  Culligore  quickly,  "even  if  Pinto 
was  the  'he'  she  had  in  mind,  she  might  have  been 
mistaken,  just  as  you  claim  Gage  was  mistaken." 

The  Phantom  made  another  slight  movement 
toward  the  cellar  stairs.  "I'm  not  at  all  sure  Gage 
made  the  statement  Pinto  claims  he  made.  My 
private  opinion  is  that  Pinto  is  a  liar  as  well  as  a 
murderer.  What  the  housekeeper  said  isn't  the  only 
evidence  I  have  against  him.  I  hadn't  meant  to  tell 
what  happened  in  the  storeroom  this  morning;  but 
since  I  was  careless  enough  to  leave  my  finger  prints 
on  the  handcuffs,  I  might  as  well  come  out  with  it." 

Culligore's  mouth  opened  wider  and  wider  as  the 
Phantom  related  what  had  occurred  in  the  storeroom 
during  the  early  morning  hours.  When  the  story 
was  finished,  he  seemed  stunned,  and  the  dazed  look 
in  his  eyes  told  the  Phantom  his  chance  had  come. 

For  an  instant  he  flexed  his  muscles  for  action, 
then  executed  a  swift  and  nimble  somersault  that 
landed  him  on  his  feet  in  the  middle  of  the  stairs. 
A  spiteful  crack  told  that  Culligore  had  fired  his 
pistol,  but  the  Phantom  was  already  at  the  bottom 
of  the  stairway.  Then  he  dashed  across  the  floor 
toward  the  point  where  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel  was. 
He  ran  his  fingers  over  the  wall  in  search  of  the 
hidden  door,  the  ingenious  arrangement  of  which  he; 
had  previously  noticed. 


THE  PHANTOM  TURNS  A  SOMERSAULT  207 


Culligore,  momentarily  taken  aback  by  the  Phan- 
tom's quick  and  unexpected  move,  was  losing  no  time. 
Already  he  was  scampering  down  the  stairs  in  pursuit 
of  the  fugitive.  The  cellar  was  dark,  save  for  the 
narrow  shaft  of  light  slanting  down  from  the  base- 
ment, and  the  Phantom  heard  him  muttering  to  him- 
self as  he  picked  his  way  through  the  gloom. 

After  a  few  moments'  search  the  Phantom's  fin- 
gers found  the  tiny  rift  in  the  brick  surface  that 
marked  the  location  of  the  door.  Culligore,  evi- 
dently hesitating  to  use  his  electric  flash  for  fear  of 
becoming  a  target  for  the  Phantom's  pistol,  was 
scudding  hither  and  thither  at  the  opposite  end  of 
the  cellar.  The  Phantom  crawled  into  the  opening, 
feet  foremost,  and  softly  pulled  the  door  to,  then  lay 
on  his  back,  chuckling  gently  to  himself  as  he  pic- 
tured the  lieutenant's  discomfiture. 

He  had  no  fear  that  Culligore  would  find  his  hid- 
ing place.  The  door  was  so  carefully  conceale3 
that  only  a  careful  search  would  reveal  its  location, 
and  the  detective  did  not  even  suspect  its  existence. 
Yet  the  Phantom  knew  that  he  would  not  be  safe 
for  long.  He  could  not  remain  in  the  tunnel  indefi- 
nitely, and  escape  through  the  other  end  was  impos- 
sible, for  he  had  previously  ascertained  that  the 
mechanism  of  the  revolving  window  frame  could  not 
be  manipulated  from  that  side.  All  he  had  gained 
was  time.  He  could  only  hope  that  his  lucky  star, 
which  so  far  had  never  deserted  him,  would  once 
more  turn  the  situation  in  his  favor. 

His  mind  was  working  quickly  while  he  listened 
to  Culligore's  movements  in  the  cellar.  Doubtless 
the  detective  would  soon  summon  assistance  and 
have  the  building  surrounded,  and  then,  unless  some 
chance  and  unforeseen  development  came  to  his 
rescue,  the  Phantom's  position  would  be  critical  in* 


208      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


deed.  Even  if  the  searchers  should  not  find  his  hid- 
ing place,  he  would  eventually  die  from  lack  of  air. 

Suddenly  his  figure  stiffened.  He  lay  rigid,  trying 
to  account  for  the  curious  sensation  that  had  just 
come  to  him.  In  a  moment  he  knew  what  it  was; 
a  faint  current  of  air  was  stirring  in  the  tunnel.  At 
first  he  could  not  understand,  for  he  was  certain  that 
both  exits  were  closed,  and  the  tube  itself  was  air- 
tight. He  worked  deeper  into  the  tunnel,  trying  to 
trace  the  mysterious  current  to  its  origin,  and  pres- 
ently it  came  to  him  that,  through  some  unaccount- 
able circumstance,  the  other  end  must  be  open. 

It  was  mystifying,  but  the  stirring  of  air  could  be 
[explained  in  no  other  way  than  that  in  some  manner 
the  revolving  window  frame  had  come  open.  He 
moved  forward  as  rapidly  as  he  could,  hoping  to 
gain  the  exit  and  get  out  of  the  zone  of  danger 
before  the  block  was  surrounded.  By  this  time  Cul- 
ligore  must  have  discovered  that  his  quarry  had  irf 
some  inexplicable  way  escaped  from  the  basement. 
Perhaps  he  was  even  now  cursing  himself  for  his 
vain-glorious  boast  that  he  would  take  the  Gray 
Phantom  single-handed  and  unaided. 

The  movement  of  air  became  more  noticeable  as 
the  Phantom  drew  near  the  end  of  the  passage.  He 
proceeded  more  slowly  now,  moving  forward  by 
cautious  twists  and  wrigglings,  a  few  inches  at  a 
time,  carefully  calculating  each  motion  so  as  to  make 
no  noise.  There  was  something  at  once  puzzling  and 
ominous  about  the  open  exit,  and  he  could  not  know 
what  awaited  him  in  the  bedroom  at  the  end  of  the 
tunnel. 

His  progress  became  more  difficult  as  he  reached 
the  acclivity  in  which  the  passage  terminated,  for  he 
had  been  moving  crab  fashion,  having  entered  the 
tunnel  feet  first  in  order  to  be  able  to  close  the  door 


THE  PHANTOM  TURNS  A  SOMERSAULT  209 


behind  him,  and  the  width  of  the  tube  'did  not  permit 
him  to  turn.  Silent  as  a  mole,  he  twisted  his  body 
upward,  all  his  senses  on  the  alert  against  the  slight- 
est hint  of  danger.  Now  his  feet  were  almost  at  the 
window  frame.  As  he  had  surmised,  the  opening 
was  clear,  and  a  few  more  twists  would  land  him 
on  the  floor  of  the  bedroom. 

Cautiously  he  thrust  a  foot  through  the  opening, 
but  in  a  moment  he  drew  it  back.  Then  he  lay  rigid, 
listening,  for  something  warned  him  of  danger.  The 
bedchamber  was  dark  and  there  was  not  the  faintest 
sound;  yet  he  knew  someone  was  lying  in  wait  for 
him  on  the  other  side. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


THE  WATCHERS  AT  THE  WINDOW 

THE  Phantom  strained  his  ears.  Faint  sounds 
of  breathing  came  to  him;  then  a  board 
creaked  ever  so  slightly  under  someone's 
weight.  A  watcher — or  were  there  two? — was 
standing  just  inside  the  window,  guarding  the  exit. 
The  discovery  nettled  him,  for  it  meant  the  loss  of 
precious  seconds,  but  he  thanked  the  warning  instinct 
that  had  prompted  him  to  muffle  his  movements.  It 
had  probably  saved  him  from  an  unexpected  attack 
in  the  dark. 

Warily  he  reached  for  the  pistol  in  his  hip  pocket. 
He  was  still  listening,  and  now  he  was  almost  cer- 
tain that  two  watchers  were  standing  close  to  the 
window  sill.  Doubtless  they  were  armed  and  ready 
to  spring  upon  him  the  moment  he  betrayed  himself, 
and  his  awkward  position  would  make  it  extremely 
difficult  for  him  to  defend  himself. 

He  turned  the  situation  over  in  his  mind  while  he 
waited.  It  had  been  a  trap,  of  course.  He  remem- 
bered the  slight  sound  that  had  told  him  of  the  open- 
ing of  the  door  to  the  laboratory  while  he  was  fenc- 
ing for  time  with  Culligore.  Someone  had  looked 
down  on  them  from  the  head  of  the  stairs,  remain- 
ing there  long  enough  to  take  in  the  situation  and 
decide  on  a  course  of  action.  Doubtless  he  had 
suspected  that  the  Phantom  would  make  an  attempt 
to  reach  the  tunnel,  his  only  avenue  of  escape,  and 

210 


THE  WATCHERS  AT  THE  WINDOW  211 


the  plan  had  been  to  attack  him  as  he  came  out  of 
the  passage. 

Again  a  board  gave  forth  a  slight  creak,  signify- 
ing that  one  of  the  sentinels  was  growing  impatient. 
The  Phantom  was  in  a  cramped  position  and,  with 
his  feet  above  his  head,  he  would  be  at  a  decided 
disadvantage  in  a  fight.  He  could  still  use  his  pistol, 
but  to  do  so  would  be  dangerous,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  difficulty7  of  taking  aim  in  the  dark.  He  was  still 
looking  for  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty  when  one  of 
the  watchers  at  the  window  spoke  in  a  whisper. 

"  'Slim!'  " 

"Well?" 

"Hear  anything  of  him  yet?" 

"Not  a  sound.  Suppose  he  shouldn't  come  out 
at  all,  Toots'?" 

"What's  in  has  got  to  come  out.  He'll  come 
acrawlin'  this  way  by  V  by.    Don't  you  worry." 

The  whispering  voices  were  unrecognizable,  and 
the  names  were  not  illuminating,  but  the  Phantom 
did  not  think  that  the  speakers  were  officers.  More 
likely  they  were  members  of  the  Duke's  band  and 
had  gained  entrance  to  the  house  during  the  absence 
of  Doctor  Bimble  and  Jerome.  It  was  even  possible 
that  they  had  trailed  the  Phantom  to  the  anthropol- 
ogist's residence. 

Again  the  man  named  Toots  spoke.  "I  don't  like 
this  job  a  little  bit.  The  Phantom's  a  bad  customer 
— a  reg'lar  devil." 

"But  we've  got  him  this  time.  He'll  come  this 
way  as  soon  as  he  notices  the  draft.  He  won't  be 
suspectin'  a  thing,  and  all  we've  got  to  do  is  grab 
him.  It'll  be  as  easy  as  picking  a  banana  out  of  the 
peeling." 

Toots  was  silent  for  a  time.    Evidently  he  stood 


212      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


in  great  awe  of  the  Phantom.  "What  about  the 
idick?" 

"Oh,  he's  taken  care  of.  The  boss  is  handlin' 
him.    No  danger  of  him  buttin'  in  on  us." 

The  Phantom  listened  intently,  but  was  barely 
able  to  distinguish  the  faint  whispers.  Slim's  last 
remark  was  interesting.  If  Culligore  had  been  at- 
tacked and  overpowered  while  searching  the  cellar, 
then  the  Phantom  was  in  no  danger  from  the  police 
just  at  present.  His  only  immediate  problem  was 
how  to  deal  with  the  two  watchers. 

" What's  the  lay,  Slim?"  Toots  was  asking. 
"Why  is  the  big  chief  so  all-fired  anxious  to  get  his 
mitts  on  the  Phantom?" 

"Orders  from  the  Duke.  There's  a  big  job  on, 
but  only  two  or  three  are  in  the  know  of  it.  All  you 
and  me  got  to  do,  Toots,  is  to  keep  our  mouths  shut, 
ask  no  questions,  and  collect  our  little  bit  when  the 
time  comes.   The  boss  will  do  the  thinkin'  part." 

Again  a  silence  fell  between  the  watchers;  then 
Toots  asked:  "Why  don't  one  of  us  go  to  the  other 
end  and  smoke  him  out?  I'm  gettin'  tired  of 
waitin'." 

"What's  eating  you?  Time's  cheap,  ain't  it?, 
The  Phantom  will  come  out  when  he  gets  ready." 

Another  pause  ensued;  then  the  inquisitive  Toots 
asked  another  question.  "What  I  don't  get  atall  is 
how  the  4  skirt'  figgers  in  the  deal.  Where  does  she 
come  in,  Slim?" 

The  Phantom  held  his  breath  to  catch  the  answer. 

"Search  me.  All  I  know  is  that  the  Phantom  has 
a  crush  on  her.  I  s'pose  the  boss  thinks  the  Phantom 
will  be  easier  to  handle  if  he's  got  a  grip  on  the: 
moll." 

"Where's  the  boss  keepin'  her?" 


THE  WATCHERS  AT  THE  WINDOW  213 


"Say,  ask  me  somethin'  easy.  The  boss  don't  tell 
me  his  secrets." 

The  Phantom  felt  a  twinge  of  disappointment. 
Toots'  question  had  given  him  hope  of  learning 
something  about  Helen's  whereabouts,  but  Slim's 
answer  had  quickly  dashed  it. 

"I'm  dying  for  a  smoke,"  he  heard  Toots  whisper. 

"Well,  get  back  in  the  corner  and  have  one.  But 
'don't  make  any  noise,  and  be  careful  when  you  strike 
the  match." 

The  Phantom  heard  Toots  tiptoeing  away  from 
the  window.  Then  came  a  faintly  scratching  sound 
as  of  a  match  being  struck.  A  daring  idea  entered 
the  Phantom's  mind.  For  the  time  being  the 
enemy's  force  was  divided,  and  there  was  only  one 
watcher  at  the  window.  He  saw  a  chance — a 
slender  and  dubious  one,  but  perhaps  the  only  chance 
he  would  have — to  get  the  upper  hand  of  the  sen- 
tinels. 

Bracing  his  shoulders  against  the  wall  of  the  pas- 
sage, he  drew  his  electric  flash  from  his  pocket.  His 
right  hand  was  already  gripping  the  pistol.  Hold- 
ing both  in  readiness  for  instant  action,  he  pricked 
up  his  ears  and  listened.  Sounds  of  breathing  told 
him  that  Slim  was  standing  a  few  inches  from  his 
feet,  perhaps  looking  directly  at  him  through  the 
Idarkness.  He  had  already  decided  that  Slim  was 
the  more  resourceful  man  of  the  two.  If  Slim  could 
be  put  out  of  action,  his  difficulty  would  be  more  than 
half  solved. 

His  finger  touched  the  little  button,  and  a  shaft 
of  light  pierced  the  darkness.  In  the  same  instant 
a  head  was  thrust  into  the  opening.  A  pair  of  star- 
tled eyes  stared  at  him  for  a  moment — and  in  that 
brief  space  of  time  the  Phantom  acted.    His  foot 


214      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


shot  out,  delivering  a  sharp  blow  in  the  region  of 
the  nose  and  eyes.  With  a  cry  of  pain  the  man 
tottered  back,  blood  streaming  from  his  face. 

The  Phantom  extinguished  his  flash  and  flung  it 
through  the  opening.  Toots,  evidently  wondering 
what  had  happened,  was  jabbering  excitedly,  but 
Slim  gave  no  sound.  With  a  swift  and  agile  move- 
ment, the  Phantom  jerked  himself  forward,  drop- 
ping his  legs  over  the  sill,  and  in  another  moment 
he  was  standing  inside  the  room.  He  stooped,  ran 
his  fingers  over  the  floor,  and  recovered  the  electric 
torch,  then  darted  noiselessly  to  one  side.  A  pistol 
shot  sounded,  followed  by  a  sharp  thud  as  the  bullet 
hit  the  wall  a  few  feet  from  where  he  stood. 

He  leaped  silently  across  the  floor.  The  brief 
flash  emitted  by  the  pistol  had  given  him  a  glimpse 
of  Slim  at  the  opposite  wall.  Before  the  man  could 
move,  the  butt  of  the  Phantom's  pistol  had  crashed 
'down  on  his  head.  Uttering  a  feeble  grunt,  he  sank 
limply  to  the  floor,  and  in  the  same  instant  came 
another  crack  and  flash,  and  a  bullet  whistled  past 
the  Phantom's  head. 

"You  almost  winged  me  that  time,  Toots,"  he  re- 
marked coolly,  at  the  same  moment  dropping  to  his 
knees  and  noiselessly  crawling  toward  where  Toots 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  door.  Another  shot,  fired 
at  random,  lighted  up  the  room  for  a  brief  instant, 
giving  him  another  glimpse  of  his  adversary. 
Swiftly  and  svithout  making  the  slightest  sound,  he 
advanced  toward  the  door.  Now  he  reached  out  a 
hand,  fumbling  for  a  moment  in  the  darkness  until 
he  lightly  touched  one  of  Toots'  shoes.  With  a 
swift  and  powerful  motion  he  jerked  the  man's  feet 
from  under  him. 

The  Phantom  sprang  to  his  feet  and  rushed  out 
of  the  room,  turning  the  key  in  the  lock  on  the  other 


THE  WATCHERS  AT  THE  WINDOW  215 


side.  He  paused  for  breath  while  he  brushed  some 
of  the  dirt  from  his  clothes.  He  had  vanquished 
his  adversaries,  but  possibly  the  shots  had  been 
heard,  and  haste  was  necessary.  He  ran  to  the  front 
of  the  store.  The  street  outside  was  quiet  and  dimly 
lighted.  Cautiously  he  opened  the  door  and  stepped 
out,  casting  a  quick  glance  up  and  down  the  street. 

He  made  a  few  rapid  calculations  as  he  walked 
to  the  corner.  If  Culligore  had  fallen  into  the 
clutches  of  the  Duke's  gang,  as  seemed  likely  from 
the  remark  dropped  by  Slim,  then  he  was  still  rea- 
sonably safe  so  far  as  the  police  were  concerned. 
Yet,  for  the  first  time  in  many  years,  the  Phantom 
was  haunted  by  misgivings.  Each  thought  of  Helen 
Hardwick  burned  itself  into  his  mind,  leaving  a  scar. 
The  realization  that  the  Duke's  minions  had  her  in 
their  power  was  maddening.  He  felt  an  urge  to  find 
her  at  once  and  snatch  her  away  from  her  jailers. 

Yet,  at  almost  every  step,  he  was  hampered  by 
the  designs  of  his  enemies.  There  were  traps  and 
snares  everywhere.  He  had  just  escaped  from  one 
of  them,  but  another  time  he  might  not  escape  so 
easily,  and  what  would  become  of  Helen  then? 

He  shuddered  at  the  thought.  His  mind  was 
as  keen  and  his  muscles  as  pliant  as  ever,  but  he  was 
playing  against  overwhelming  odds,  and  the  mere 
thought  of  defeat  was  unbearable.  To  ask  help  of 
the  police  was  out  of  the  question.  His  old  organ- 
ization was  scattered  to  the  four  corners  of  the 
earth.  Wade,  his  former  chief  lieutenant  and  now 
his  trusted  friend,  had  grown  too  fat  to  be  of  much 
use,  and  to  reach  him  would  be  difficult. 

Suddenly  he  thought  of  Thomas  Granger.  The; 
reporter's  journalistic  instincts,  coupled  with  his 
fondness  of  strong  drink,  had  given  the  Phantom  the 
feeling  that  he  was  not  to  be  trusted.    Those  two; 


216      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


qualities  aside,  he  had  rather  liked  the  fellow. 
Granger  had  traits  that  appealed  to  him  strongly. 
He  reconsidered  the  question  as  he  stood  on  the 
corner,  glancing  furtively  in  all  directions  to  see: 
whether  he  was  being  spied  upon. 

In  a  few  moments  his  mind  was  made  up.  For 
Helen's  sake  he  must  seek  assistance  somewhere, 
and  he  was  in  no  position  to  be  squeamish  about  his 
choice.  A  glance  at  his  watch  told  him  that  it  was 
half  past  eleven.  Pell  Street  was  only  a  dozen  short 
blocks  away,  and  a  brisk  walk  brought  him  to  Peng 
Yuen  s  door. 

The  wooden-featured  Chinaman  scanned  his  face 
as  he  held  the  door  open  and  bade  him  enter. 

"There  is  fire  in  your  eyes,"  he  observed  as  he 
conducted  his  guest  into  the  den.  uIs  it  the  little 
Lotus  Bud  who  is  troubling  the  Gray  Phantom? 
The  'Book  of  the  Unknown  Philosopher7  says  " 

The  Phantom  interrupted  him  with  a  short  laugh. 
"Peng  Yuen,  for  a  man  who  doesn't  read  the  news- 
papers, you  are  surprisingly  well  informed.  I  have 
come  to  have  a  talk  with  my  double." 

The  Chinaman  regarded  him  stonily.  Two  in- 
cense sticks,  burning  before  a  hideous  joss  idol,  filled 
the  air  with  acrid  fumes.  Peng  Yuen,  sucking  a 
bamboo  pipe  with  gorgeous  tassels,  seemed  to  be: 
turning  over  a  question  in  his  mind. 

"I  think  your  friend  is  sleeping,"  he  said  at 
length. 

uThen  wake  him,"  directed  the  Phantom  impa- 
tiently. 

The  Chinaman  shrugged  his  shoulders  anH 
touched  a  button  on  the  wall,  then  motioned  the 
Phantom  to  enter.  Granger  was  in  bed,  but  he 
looked  up  gloomily  and  stretched  himself.  There 
was  a  litter  of  cigarette  ends  on  the  table,  and  torn1 


THE  WATCHERS  AT  THE  WINDOW  217 


and  crumpled  newspapers  were  scattered  over  the 
floor. 

"Hope  you've  brought  me  a  'drink,"  said  Granger. 

The  Phantom  shook  his  head.  Then  he  sat  down 
on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  fixed  the  reporter's  face 
with  a  keen  and  minutely  searching  gaze,  as  if  ex- 
ploring the  depths  of  his  soul. 

"What's  the  idea?"  asked  the  reporter.  "You 
look  at  me  as  if  I  were  some  kind  of  curiosity." 

There  was  a  faint  hint  of  doubt  in  the  Phantom's 
face,  but  it  vanished  soon. 

"I  think  you  will  do,"  he  declared.  "There's  just 
one  quality  in  your  face,  Granger,  that  I  can't  quite 
analyze.  It's  a  weakness  of  some  kind — your  crav- 
ing for  alcohol,  perhaps.  Anyway,  I  am  willing  to 
take  a  chance  on  it.    You  are  going  with  me." 

The  reporter  sat  up,  his  face  all  eagerness. 

"Wait,"  commanded  the  Phantom;  "I  want  to  be 
sure  that  we  understand  each  other.  I  am  making 
the  biggest  play  of  my  career.  I  am  going  after  the 
Duke's  crowd.  My  primary  object  is  to  get  Miss 
Hardwick  out  of  their  clutches.  My  secondary  one 
is  to  put  the  whole  gang  of  sneaks  and  cowards  be- 
hind the  bars,  where  they  belong.  If  I  succeed,  it 
will  be  as  great  a  sensation  as  the  Sphere  ever  sprang. 
You  are  welcome  to  it,  provided  you  accept  the  con- 
ditions." 

'What  are  they?" 

"I  am  very  likely  to  get  into  trouble  before  the 
job  is  done.  I  may  walk  into  the  arms  of  the  police, 
or  into  one  of  the  traps  set  by  the  Duke.  I  may  get 
shot,  put  in  a  dungeon,  murdered,  perhaps.  You 
are  to  follow  me  at  a  safe  distance  wherever  I  go, 
never  letting  me  out  of  your  sight.  If  anything  hap- 
pens to  me  I  want  you  to  take  up  the  search  where 


218      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


I  left  off.  Above  all  else  you  are  to  get  Miss  Hard- 
wick  away  from  those  ruffians.    Do  you  agree?" 

Impulsively,  without  a  moment's  hesitation, 
Granger  put  out  his  hand.  The  Phantom  gripped 
it.  As  he  held  it  for  a  moment,  another  look  of 
doubt  flickered  across  his  face,  but  it  was  soon  gone. 

"Then  get  into  your  clothes,"  he  directed;  "or 
mine,  rather.  We  might  as  well  keep  up  the  mas- 
querade a  while  longer.  I  am  just  a  shade  safer 
when  I  am  hiding  behind  your  personality." 

"But  what  about  me?"  inquired  Granger,  making 
a  wry  face. 

"Give  the  dicks  and  bulls  as  wide  a  swath  as  you 
can.  At  worst,  they  can  only  pick  you  up  again  and 
take  another  impression  of  your  finger  prints,  and 
you  will  have  to  explain  why  you  have  shed  your 
gaudy  feathers.  If  we  have  a  bit  of  luck  we'Jl  pull 
off  a  stunt  that  the  police  won't  forget  in  many  a 
day.  They'll  be  so  busy  explaining  their  own  mis- 
takes and  blunders  that  they  won't  ask  many  ques- 
tions." 

He  had  found  a  whisk  broom  and  was  removing 
from  his  clothing  some  of  the  grime  and  dust  he  had 
gathered  in  the  tunnel.  He  glanced  impatiently  at 
his  watch,  while  Granger  dressed  with  time-consum- 
ing care. 

"Which  way?"  inquired  the  reporter. 

"Do  you  suppose  it's  too  late  to  find  the  coffee- 
house pirate?" 

"Doubtful,  but  you  might  try.  Sometimes  he 
hangs  around  the  Catharine  Street  joint  till  late." 

"What's  his  name?" 

"You  might  call  him  Matt  Lunn.  He  has  several 
names,  and  he  isn't  particular  which  one  you  use." 

The  Phantom  considered.  "Is  he  close  to  the 
inner  circle  of  the  gang?   Does  he  share  its  secrets?" 


THE  WATCHERS  AT  THE  WINDOW  219 


"I  think  he  does,  but  I  wouldn't  swear  to  it. 
Anyhow,  he  is  a  lot  closer  to  the  big  chief  than  I 
ever  got." 

The  Phantom  scowled  while  Granger  adjusted  his 
tie.  The  reporter  seemed  almost  as  keen  on  sartorial 
polish  as  on  journalistic  attainments. 

"By  the  way,"  inquired  the  Phantom,  "who  is  the 
illustrious  personage  that's  referred  to  as  'the  big 
chief?" 

"He  is  the  Duke's  chief  agent.  I  don't  know  his 
name,  and  I've  never  seen  him.  Through  under- 
ground channels  the  Duke  sends  him  orders  from 
his  cell  in  Sing  Sing.  The  Duke  is  the  brain  that 
plans,  and  the  big  chief  is  the  hand  that  executes. 
Say,  I'm  being  consumed  with  curiosity.  Aren't  you 
going  to  tell  me  something  of  your  plans?" 

"I  haven't  anything  definite.  I  shall  go  to  the 
Catharine  Street  coffee  house  and  try  to  cultivate  the 
acquaintance  of  Mr.  Matt  Lunn.  I  mean  to  obtain 
certain  items  of  information  from  him.  Just  how  I 
shall  go  about  obtaining  them  depends  upon  what 
sort  of  man  I  find  him  to  be.  We'll  be  on  our  way 
whenever  you  are  through  primping." 

At  last  the  reporter  was  ready.  Peng  Yuen  was 
stolidly  smoking  his  pipe  as  they  passed  out.  The 
almond-shaped  eyes  narrowed  a  trifle  as  the  Phantom 
shook  his  hand,  and  for  an  instant  he  seemed  about 
to  say  something.  In  another  moment  he  had 
changed  his  mind,  however,  and  with  a  queer  little 
grunt  in  his  throat  he  went  back  to  his  green-tasseled 

P*Pe- . 

With  a  final  admonition  to  exercise  care  and  dis- 
cretion, the  Phantom  left  Granger  outside  the  shop 
and  walked  rapidly  toward  Catharine  Street.  He 
had  no  reason  for  doubting  the  reporter's  sincerity. 
Granger's  moral  stamina  might  not  be  all  that  could 


no      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


be  desired;  but,  on  the  whole,  the  Phantom  was  well 
pleased  with  the  arrangement.  It  had  already  re- 
lieved him  of  much  worry  and  enabled  him  to  center 
his  thoughts  and  efforts  on  the  task  before  him. 

He  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  coffee  house,  a 
crumbling  and  evil-looking  hovel  squeezed  between 
a  sooty  factory  building  and  a  squalid  tenement. 
Lights  shone  dimly  through  several  windows  in  the 
block,  which  had  a  gloomy  and  somewhat  sinister 
appearance,  and  he  was  looked  at  sharply  by  several 
wretched  creatures  who  passed  him  on  the  sidewalk. 
The  window  and  glass  door  of  the  coffee  house  were 
covered  with  green  paper  blinds,  but  there  was  a 
narrow  opening  through  which  the  Phantom  could 
get  a  glimpse  of  the  interior. 

Some  twelve  or  fifteen  men  were  seated  at  long 
tables,  drinking  coffee  and  smoking  pipes  or  ciga- 
rettes. The  air  was  so  heavy  with  tobacco  fumes 
that  the  Phantom  could  not  distinguish  their  features 
clearly,  but  he  got  the  impression  that  they  were  a 
disreputable  lot.  He  looked  in  vain  for  anyone  an- 
swering the  description  Granger  had  given  of  Matt 
Lunn.  He  walked  away  from  the  window  and  stood 
at  the  curb,  scanning  the  street  in  either  direction. 
At  a  corner  a  block  away,  he  saw  a  shadowy  figure 
leaning  against  a  stack  of  boxes  outside  a  grocery. 

"Granger  is  on  the  job,"  he  mumbled. 

Then  he  turned  quickly  just  as  a  huge,  raw-boned 
man  appeared  from  the  opposite  direction  and 
walked  into  the  coffee  house.  The  Phantom  caught 
a  glimpse  of  his  face  as  he  opened  the  door  and 
passed  through,  and  that  glimpse  revealed  a  great, 
livid  scar  over  the  left  eye. 

In  an  instant  he  knew  that  the  man  was  Matt 
Lunn.  A  thin,  audacious  smile  hovered  about  the 
Phantom's  lips  as  recognition  flashed  through  his 


THE  WATCHERS  AT  THE  WINDOW  221 


mind.  For  a  moment  he  hesitated,  casting  a  swift 
glance  to  the  corner  where  Granger  stood;  then  he 
crossed  the  sidewalk  and  resolutely  pushed  the  door 
open. 

A  minute  or  two  later,  in  a  cheap,  all-night  lunch- 
room a  block  down  the  street,  someone  was  impa- 
tiently jigging  the  hook  of  a  telephone. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


THE  FACE  IN  THE  LIMOUSINE 

TWELVE  or  more  pairs  of  eyes  looked  up  as 
the  Phantom  walked  into  the  coffee  house. 
They  gave  the  newcomer  a  long,  stony  stare, 
followed  his  brisk  progress  across  the  floor  to  a 
table  in  the  rear,  then  looked  down  again  into  coffee 
cups  and  pipe  bowls,  as  if  the  new  arrival  had  been 
completely  forgotten. 

With  a  view  to  obtaining  an  unobstructed  view  of 
Matt  Lunn's  face,  the  Phantom  had  chosen  his  po- 
sition carefully.  He  wished  to  study  the  man  before; 
he  approached  him.  A  glance  told  him  that  Gran- 
ger's description  had  been  apt  but  incomplete.  He. 
was  a  wicked-looking  creature,  with  coffee-brown 
complexion,  eyes  that  were  as  hard  and  emotionless 
as  bits  of  colored  porcelain,  and  thick,  coarse  lips 
that  were  fixed  in  a  perpetual  sneer  and  gave  him  a 
look  of  sullen  ferocity  that  was  set  off  strikingly  by 
the  scar  over  his  eye. 

The  Phantom  noted  these  details  and  made  his 
'deductions  while  he  gave  his  order  to  a  gaunt,  hunch- 
backed waiter.  So  far  Lunn,  who  sat  alone  across 
an  aisle  between  the  tables,  had  not  even  looked  in 
his  direction  and  seemed  totally  unaware  of  his  pres- 
ence. The  others,  too,  appeared  to  be  ignoring  him, 
but  furtive  glances  and  an  occasional  whisper  warned 
the  Phantom  that  he  was  under  surveillance. 

222 


THE  FACE  IN  THE  LIMOUSINE  223 


He  sipped  a  little  of  the  coffee  that  was  brought 
him,  shoved  the  cup  aside  and  strolled  across  the 
aisle,  seating  himself  opposite  the  man  with  the  scar. 

"Hello,  Lunn,"  he  said  easily,  imitating  Granger's 
manner  of  speech.  It  was  a  convenient  opening, 
;even  if  he  should  not  be  able  to  deceive  the  man  in 
regard  to  his  identity. 

Slowly  the  other  lifted  his  flinty  eyes,  fixing  a 
vacuous  stare  on  the  Phantom's  face,  and  pulled 
hard  at  his  pipe.  "Hullo,  yourself,"  was  his  gruff 
response. 

"A  bit  grouchy  to-night,  Lunn?"  bantered  the 
Phantom,  resuming  his  study  of  the  man  at  closer 
range  and  confirming  his  previous  suspicion  that 
Matt  Lunn  was  a  bully  with  a  coward's  heart.  A 
cranning  of  necks  and  lowering  glances  signified  that 
the  rest  of  the  men  in  the  room  were  following  the 
conversation. 

"You  called  me  by  a  different  name  last  time  you 
saw  me,"  grumbled  Lunn  suspiciously. 

The  Phantom  masked  his  momentary  confusion 
behind  a  grin.  After  all,  he  had  scarcely  hoped  to 
fool  Lunn,  for  the  latter  and  Granger  had  been  inti- 
mately acquainted  for  some  time,  and  this  was  put- 
ting the  ruse  to  the  acid  test. 

"You've  got  so  many  monickers,  Lunn,  that  I 
can't  remember  them  all.  Which  particular  one 
would  you  like  to  have  me  use  to-night?" 

"The  same  one  you  always  used  before,  if  you 
know  which  one  that  is." 

Of  a  sudden  the  Phantom  wished  that  Granger 
had  given  him  more  explicit  information  regarding 
Lunn.  The  man  with  the  scar  was  plainly  suspi- 
cious, and  the  Phantom  was  not  yet  quite  ready  for 
action. 

"Tell  me  where  I  can  connect  with  a  drink,"  was 


224      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


his  jocular  evasion,  "or  I'll  call  you  a  name  you 
never  heard  before." 

The  other  sneered.  "There  are  some  things  that 
hurt  a  lot  worse  than  names  do.  One  of  them  is 
a  knife  in  the  side,  and  I've  been  told  a  fellow  whose 
name  is  Tommie  Granger  is  going  to  get  just  that 
unless  he  explains  certain  things  to  the  big  chief." 

The  Phantom's  face  sobered.  "I'm  ready  to  ex- 
plain. That's  why  I  looked  you  up  to-night.  But 
we  can't  talk  in  here.  Suppose  we  take  a  walk 
around  the  block?" 

Lunn  laughed  derisively.  "I  was  referrin'  to  a 
guy  named  Tommie  Granger.  He  looks  a  lot  like 
you  and  he  hands  out  pretty  much  the  same  kind  of 
spiel,  and  yet  I  could  tell  the  difference  almost  as 
soon  as  I  put  my  lamps  on  you.  Just  the  same,  I'd 
as  soon  walk  around  the  block  with  the  Gray  Phan- 
tom as  with  anybody  else." 

He  spoke  the  last  sentence  in  a  whisper,  accom- 
panying the  words  with  a  grin  that  rendered  his  face 
all  the  more  repellent.  The  Phantom  cast  a  quick 
glance  at  the  evil-looking  faces  at  the  other  tables, 
wondering  whether  Lunn  had  any  confederates  in 
the  room.  They  were  the  scum  of  the  lower  levels 
of  the  underworld,  and  their  blotched  and  hardened 
features  bespoke  lives  steeped  in  loathsome  iniqui- 
ties, but,  unless  there  were  members  of  the  Duke's 
organization  among  them,  the  Phantom  saw  no 
reason  why  they  should  side  against  him. 

He  paid  the  hunchback  and  walked  behind  Lunn' 
toward  the  door.  Sullen  and  covert  glances  followed 
him,  but  none  of  the  men  rose,  and  he  was  permitted 
to  reach  the  door  without  interference.  He  glanced 
back  as  he  stepped  out  on  the  sidewalk  and  made; 
sure  that  Lunn  and  himself  were  not  being  followed. 


THE  FACE  IN  THE  LIMOUSINE  225 


The  man  with  the  scar  took  a  few  steps  down  the 
street,  then  stopped  and  whirled  round. 

"What's  the  idea?"  he  demanded  brusquely. 
•Why  did  you  walk  in  there  and  try  to  pass  yourself 
off  as  Tommie  Granger?" 

"Not  so  loud,  Lunn."  The  Phantom  glanced 
about  him  quickly.  For  the  moment  the  block  hap- 
pened to  be  deserted.  Lunn  was  standing  with  his 
back  to  the  dark  doorway  of  the  factory  building 
which  adjoined  the  coffee  house.  There  was  a  men- 
acing scowl  in  his  face  and  his  right  hand  was  hov- 
;ering  over  one  of  his  pockets. 

Again  the  Phantom  darted  a  quick  glance  up  and 
5iown  the  street.  The  only  person  in  sight  was  the 
lonely  figure  leaning  against  the  stack  of  grocery 
boxes  on  the  farther  corner.  Evidently  Granger  had 
not  moved  a  single  step  from  his  post. 

"I'm  listening,"  said  Lunn.  "What's  the  an- 
swer?" 

"This  is  your  answer."  With  one  hand  the  Phan- 
tom pinioned  Lunn's  arm;  with  the  other  he  jerked 
his  pistol  from  his  pocket  and  pushed  it  against  the 
other's  waist,  shoving  him  into  the  shelter  of  the 
doorway.  Lunn,  startled  by  the  swift  maneuver, 
gave  a  throaty  squeal. 

"Be  quiet!"  commande'd  the  Phantom.  "I  have 
a  few  things  to  say  to  you,  and  I  don't  want  any 
interruptions.  I  happen  to  know  that  you're  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Duke's  gang.  Your  crowd  is  after  me 
tooth  and  nail,  and  the  reason  you  were  so  willing 
to  take  a  walk  with  me  was  that  you  hoped  to  catch 
me  off  my  guard  and  hand  me  over  to  your  chief. 
You're  a  fool,  Lunn.  Cleverer  men  than  you  have 
tried  that  and  failed.   Feel  that?" 

He  jabbed  the  pistol  harder  against  the  other's 


226      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


waist,  and  a  yawp  of  terror  proved  that  he  had  reaH 
Lunn's  character  accurately.  The  big  man,  who 
would  have  been  a  dangerous  adversary  if  he  had 
gained  the  upper  hand,  was  cowering. 

"Now,  Lunn,"  said  the  Phantom  sharply,  "a  few 
quick  answers  may  prolong  your  life  by  a  good 
many  years.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  young  lady 
named  Miss  Hardwick?" 

"The  name  sounds  kind  of  familiar." 

"Don't  stall!  Miss  Hardwick  was  kidnaped  by 
members  of  the  Duke's  gang." 

"Ye-es."   Lunn  gulped.   "I — I  think  she  was." 

"You  know  she  was.  Don't  you?"  The  question 
was  emphasized  with  a  little  extra  pressure  on  the 
pistol. 

"I've  been  told  the  lady  was  kidnaped,  but  that's 
all  I  know.  I  didn't  have  anything  to  do  with  that 
job." 

The  Phantom  regarded  him  sharply,  but  his  face 
was  indistinct  in  the  gloom.    "Who  did?" 
"I  don't  know;  I  never  heard." 
"Where  was  she  taken?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  that,  either.  Say,  there's  no  use 
poking  a  hole  through  me  with  that  gat.  I  can't  tell 
what  I  don't  know." 

The  Phantom  was  inclined  to  believe  him.  Evi- 
dently Granger  had  overestimated  Lunn's  store  of 
inside  information  regarding  the  gang's  activities. 

"There's  one  thing  you  can  tell  me,  and  you  had 
better  speak  quickly.  Where  does  this  precious  gang 
hang  out?   Where  is  its  headquarters?" 

Lunn  did  not  answer.  He  was  breathing  stertor- 
ously,  and  he  uttered  a  groan  or  grunt  whenever  the 
pressure  on  the  pistol  was  increased. 

"Out  with  it!"  The  Phantom  cast  an  uneasy 
glance  behind  him  as  he  spoke,  but  no  one  was  in 


THE  FACE  IN  THE  LIMOUSINE  227 


sight.  "You'll  never  get  out  of  here  alive  unless  you 
tell." 

The  big  fellow  trembled.  "I've  sworn  to  keep  my 
mouth  shut." 

"Well,  I  guess  it  wouldn't  be  the  first  time  you 
have  violated  an  oath.    Where  is  the  place?" 

"Will  you  let  me  go  if  I  tell  you?" 

An  affirmative  answer  was  on  the  Phantom's 
tongue,  but  he  held  it  back.  "No,  Lunn,  you  are 
not  going  to  get  off  quite  so  easily.  You  might  give 
me  a  fictitious  address,  and  I  would  have  no  way  of 
verifying  it  until  too  late.  You  will  have  to  take  me 
there,  and  I  sha'n't  let  you  go  until  I  have  satisfied 
myself  that  it  is  the  right  place." 

Lunn  groaned;  and  the  Phantom  looked  dubiously 
along  the  street.  The  words  were  no  sooner  out  of 
his  mouth  than  a  sense  of  diffidence  assailed  him. 
To  march  an  unwilling  and  treacherous  guide 
through  the  streets  would  be  a  hard  and  perilous 
task  even  at  that  late  hour.  Then  an  idea  came  to 
him.  He  would  signal  Granger  and  instruct  him  to 
find  a  taxicab. 

He  turned  slightly  and  looked  out  of  the  door- 
way, waving  his  hand  at  the  solitary  figure  on  the 
corner.  In  the  next  moment  a  short  exclamation  of 
surprise  fell  from  his  lips.  A  big  black  car  was 
gliding  down  the  street,  slackening  its  pace  as  it  drew 
nearer.  The  Phantom,  still  pressing  the  pistol  firmly 
against  Lunn's  body,  saw  that  it  was  a  limousine,  and 
he  was  at  a  loss  to  understand  what  a  car  of  that 
type  was  doing  in  such  a  squalid  neighborhood. 
Now  it  was  crawling  along  very  slowly,  swerving 
close  to  the  curb  as  it  came  within  a  few  feet  of  the 
entrance  to  the  coffee  house.  The  driver  was  leaning 
from  his  seat,  as  if  looking  for  someone. 

Of  a  sudden  a  hoarse  cry  rose  in  the  Phantom's 


228      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


throat.   Forgetting  Lunn,  he  sprang  from  the  'door- 
way.   A  face  had  appeared  at  the  window  of  the 
car — a  white,  rigid  face  with  staring  eyes  and  the 
look  of  death  spread  over  its  features. 
The  face  was  Helen  Hardwick's. 


CHAPTER  XXV 


IN  A  CIRCLE  OF  LIGHT 

SHE  looked  as  though  her  whole  being  had  frozen 
into  rigidity,  and  the  glacial  stare  of  her  eyes 
sent  a  chill  through  the  Phantom's  veins.    In  a 
moment  he  was  on  the  running  board,  wrenching  the 
door  open.    He  did  not  notice  that  the  car  gathered 
speed  just  as  he  tumbled  in. 

"Helen!"  he  cried,  throwing  himself  into  the  seat 
beside  her.  "What's  the  matter?  What  has  hap- 
pened?  Can't  you  speak?" 

Her  body  swayed  slightly  with  the  motions  of  the 
car,  but  otherwise  she  did  not  stir.  She  sat  erect  and 
immobile,  wTith  her  face  turned  stonily  to  the  win- 
dow, as  if  neither  hearing  nor  seeing.  He  took  one 
of  her  hands.  It  was  cold,  clammy,  and  limp.  A 
groan  broke  from  his  lips. 

Then,  from  a  corner  of  the  car,  two  shadows 
leaped  upon  him  with  a  suddenness  that  dazed  him. 
The  pistol  was  still  in  his  hand,  but  a  stinging  blow 
over  the  knuckles  made  him  drop  it  to  the  floor. 
Helen  Hardwick's  face,  terribly  still,  held  him  under 
a  spell  while  his  arms  were  twisted  behind  him  and 
his  wrists  secured  with  a  stout  cord  that  bit  into  his 
flesh.  Not  until  his  legs  had  also  been  manacled  did 
a  glimmering  of  the  truth  force  itself  through  his 
numbed  senses;  but  even  then  he  could  think  of  noth- 
ing but  the  woman  at  his  side. 

229 


230      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


"Is  she — dead?"  he  asked. 

Someone  laughed.  "Oh,  nol  She  will  come  out 
of  it  presendy.  We  needed  a  decoy,  and  she  refused 
to  accommodate  us,  so  we  gave  her  a  hypodermic 
injection.    It  worked  fine." 

He  braced  his  muscles  as  a  vivid  realization  of 
what  had  happened  flashed  upon  him,  but  the  cords 
about  his  wrists  and  ankles  held  his  limbs.  Again 
he  had  walked  into  a  trap,  but  for  once  he  did  not 
blame  himself  for  his  lack  of  caution.  With  eyes 
open  he  would  have  rushed  into  a  thousand  traps  if 
Helen  Hardwick  was  the  bait.  He  glanced  out  of 
the  window,  noticing  that  the  car  was  gliding  swifdy 
through  dark  and  deserted  streets. 

A  hand  reached  out  and  pulled  down  the  blind, 
cutting  off  the  view.  The  car  was  making  numerous 
turns,  and  he  soon  lost  all  sense  of  direction.  The 
man's  explanation  of  Helen  Hardwick's  condition 
had  removed  a  crushing  weight  of  horror  from  his 
mind,  and  once  more  his  head  was  functioning 
clearly. 

"Another  of  the  Duke's  tricks,  1  suppose?"  he 
remarked. 

"You  suppose  correctly,"  was  the  answer.  "You 
have  slipped  out  of  our  hands  often  enough,  but  this 
time  we  have  you.  You  haven't  a  chance  in  the 
world." 

The  Phantom  was  silent  for  a  time,  realizing  that 
his  captors  had  turned  the  trick  neatly  and  with  dis- 
patch. Evidendy  they  were  men  of  much  finer 
mental  caliber  than  Matt  Lunn  and  Dan  the  Dope. 
It  had  been  a  clever  ruse,  and  they  had  set  the  trag 
very  deftly. 

"What's  the  programme?"  he  inquired. 

"You  will  see  soon  enough." 


IN  A  CIRCLE  OF  LIGHT  231 


The  Phantom  asked  no  more  questions.  Suddenly 
he  remembered  Granger,  and  he  wondered  whether 
the  reporter  had  been  able  to  follow  the  speeding 
car.  It  was  doubtful,  he  thought,  unless  Granger 
had  been  lucky  enough  to  find  a  taxicab  in  a  hurry. 
Yet  the  fellow  was  resourceful  and  keen-witted,  and 
it  was  possible  

His  thoughts  were  rudely  interrupted.  The  car 
slowed  down,  and  almost  in  the  same  instant  a  hand 
gripped  him  around  the  throat  and  shoved  him  back 
against  the  cushion.  Another  hand  put  a  cloth  over 
his  mouth,  and  he  became  conscious  of  a  cloying, 
sickeningly  sweetish  odor.  Gradually  his  sensations 
drifted  into  chaos  as  his  head  grew  heavier  and 
heavier.  He  heard  voices,  but  they  sounded  as  if 
coming  from  a  great  distance,  and  he  had  an  odd 
feeling  that  the  car  was  sliding  down  a  bottomless 
abyss.  Then  a  great  void  seemed  to  swallow  him 
up,  and  he  knew  nothing  more. 

Finally,  after  what  seemed  a  lapse  of  hours,  his 
mind  drifted  out  of  the  stupor.  There  was  a  burn- 
ing sensation  in  his  throat  and  he  felt  sick  and  weak. 
He  tried  to  move,  but  something  restrained  him,  and 
he  had  a  dull  impression  that  he  was  roped  to  a  chair 
and  that  the  chair  itself  was  clamped  to  the  floor. 
His  eyelids  fluttered  weakly,  and  he  closed  them  in- 
stinctively as  a  door  opened  behind  him. 

Two  men  were  entering  the  room,  and  one  of 
them  was  chuckling  gleefully,  as  if  he  had  just  heard 
a  good  joke.  Though  his  thoughts  were  wandering 
in  a  haze,  it  occurred  to  him  that  it  might  be  well  to 
feign  unconsciousness.  He  closed  his  eyes  tightly 
and  sat  motionless  in  the  chair.  The  two  men  ad- 
vanced until  they  stood  in  front  of  him.  The  Phan- 
tom felt  their  eyes  on  his  face. 


232      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


"Capital!"  exclaimed  one  of  them,  and  he  thought 
there  was  something  familiar  about  the  voice.  "Too 
bad  the  Duke  can't  be  here  and  see  this !  It  would 
<do  his  soul  good  to  see  his  old  enemy  strapped  to  a 
chair.  Well,  Somers,  I  guess  this  will  be  the  end 
of  the  Gray  Phantom." 

The  words  stung  the  listener's  senses  like  a  whip- 
lash. He  tried  to  identify  the  voice,  but  he  was 
unable  to  recall  where  he  had  heard  it  before. 

"We've  got  him  just  where  we  want  him,"  re- 
marked the  man  addressed  as  Somers,  "and  I  don't 
think  he'll  get  away  from  us  this  time.  It  will  be  a 
miracle  if  he  does." 

"Not  even  a  miracle  can  save  him.  The  Phantom 
is  done  for.    You  did  a  good  job,  Somers." 

"Oh,  it  was  easy  enough.  All  we  had  to  do  was 
to  shoot  some  Hope  into  the  moll,  pose  her  in  the  win- 
dow of  the  car,  and  drive  past  the  place  where  we 
had  been  tipped  off  we  would  find  the  Phantom.  I 
was  just  wondering  how  to  get  him  out  of  the  joint, 
when  he  walks  out  of  a  doorway,  catches  a  glimpse 
of  the  skirt,  and  rushes  blindly  into  the  trap.  It 
wrorked  like  greased  lightning.  Looks  as  though 
he'd  be  dead  to  the  world  for  quite  a  while  yet." 

The  Phantom  repressed  a  smile.  His  superb  con- 
stitution was  already  shaking  off  the  effects  of  the; 
chloroform. 

"How  is  the  little  doll?"  inquired  the  first  speaker, 
who  seemed  to  be  a  man  of  authority  in  the  Duke's 
organization. 

"Chipper  as  a  wild  cat.  She  came  to  shortly  after 
we  got  here.  That  kid  had  spunk,  and  she's  all 
there  on  looks.  I  don't  blame  the  Gray  Phantom  for 
falling  for  her.    I  would  myself." 

"Sentiment  and  business  make  a  bad  mixture,"  was 
the  other's  dry  comment.    "Don't  let  a  pretty  face 


IN  A  CIRCLE  OF  LIGHT  233 


bedevil  you,  Somers.  The  young  laHy  is  here  to 
serve  our  purpose.   After  that  " 

He  stopped,  and  the  ensuing  pause  somehow  im- 
pressed the  Phantom  as  ominous. 

"Well,  then  what?"  asked  Somers,  and  there  was 
a  slight  catch  to  his  voice. 

"She  is  a  shrewd  young  thing  and  she  knows  too 
much  for  our  good.  Our  safety  demands  that — but 
we'll  cross  that  bridge  when  we  get  to  it."  He 
laughed  again,  as  if  to  rid  his  mind  of  unpleasant 
thoughts.  "I  can  scarcely  realize  that  the  Gray 
Phantom  is  in  our  power  at  last.  It's  almost  too 
good  to  be  true." 

"It  is  true,  though.  Say,  won't  he  get  a  jolt  when 
he  comes  out  of  the  daze  and  finds  himself  strapped 
to  a  chair?" 

"That  isn't  the  only  jolt  that's  in  store  for  him. 
We'll  give  him  a  glimpse  of  the  big  show,  just  for 
the  moral  effect  it  will  have  on  him.  Just  a  little  eye 
teaser,  you  know,  Somers.    Is  everything  ready?" 

"Ready  to  a  dot.    Want  to  have  a  look?" 

The  other  answered  affirmatively,  and  the  two 
men  left  the  room.  The  last  part  of  the  conversa- 
tion had  been  unintelligible  to  the  Phantom,  and  he 
did  not  try  to  puzzle  it  out.  The  unfinished  sentence 
and  its  train  of  vaguely  disturbing  thoughts  haunted 
him.  Helen  Hardwick  was  to  serve  some  mysterious 
purpose.  After  that — he  wondered  why  he  felt  a 
chill  as  he  tried  to  imagine  the  rest.  The  words  left 
unspoken  suggested  terrifying  possibilities. 

He  opened  his  eyes.  Evidently  the  two  men  had 
extinguished  the  lights  upon  leaving,  for  the  room 
was  dark.  With  the  fragmentary  sentence  still  echo- 
ing in  his  ears,  he  tore  at  the  ropes,  but  the  attempt 
only  bruised  his  wrists. 

Suddenly  he  sat  still,  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  tiny  light 


234      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


that  had  appeared  in  the  back  of  the  room.  The 
point  of  luminance  grew  larger  and  larger,  swelling 
into  a  circle  of  pale  radiance,  and  in  its  center  he 
saw  something  that  caused  him  to  wonder  whether 
he  was  dreaming  a  madman's  dream. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  PHANTOM  HEARS  A  SCREAM 

RIGID  in  every  fiber,  the  Phantom  stared  at  the 
circle  of  light,  which  seemed  to  have  appeared 
out  of  nowhere.  At  first  small  as  the  head  of 
a  pin,  it  gradually  unfolded  and  expanded,  at  the 
same  time  changing  from  white  into  a  pale  greenish 
hue  that  dissolved  the  surrounding  darkness  into 
translucent  mist. 

As  it  grew  larger,  the  light  wrapped  itself  around 
an  object  of  strange  appearance.  It  was  gray  as 
ashes  and  its  shape  gave  forth  a  weird  suggestion 
that  it  had  once  been  a  living  thing.  The  pale, 
ghostly  light  that  surrounded  it  like  a  nimbus  gave 
it  a  monstrous  character. 

"A  skull !"  mumbled  the  Phantom.  Under  ordi- 
nary circumstances  he  could  have  looked  upon  it 
calmly,  but  the  stillness  and  darkness,  broken  only 
by  the  pallid  glow  in  the  distance,  gave  the  object 
a  mystical  touch  that  cast  a  spell  over  his  senses. 

His  nerves  had  withstood  physical  fear  in  its  most 
severe  fonns,  but  they  quavered  a  little  before  this 
subtle  and  bewildering  manifestation.  His  weakness 
nettled  him  and  he  closed  his  eyes  and  sought  to 
banish  the  thing  from  his  mind,  but  the  vision  as  it 
lingered  in  his  imagination  was  even  more  disturbing 
than  the  reality.  Again  he  opened  his  eyes  and 
looked  fixedly  to  one  side,  determined  not  to  let  an 
inanimate  thing  of  bone  upset  his  nerves.    A  slight 

235 


236      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


shiver  ran  through  him  as,  among  the  shadows  at 
the  wall,  he  discerned  a  dim  shape.  He  could  barely 
distinguish  its  outlines,  but  again  he  received  an  im- 
pression of  something  that  had  once  pulsed  with  life 
and  was  now  hollow  and  dead.  He  peered  sharply 
at  the  blurred  shape  standing  grimly  erect  a  few  feet 
from  his  chair,  and  presently  he  saw  what  it  was. 

Then  he  laughed,  but  the  laugh  sounded  a  trifle 
forced.  He  had  seen  a  similar  object  before,  in  one 
of  the  glass  cages  in  Doctor  Bimble's  laboratory,  but 
he  had  regarded  it  with  no  stronger  feeling  than  mild 
curiosity.  Now,  in  the  stillness  and  gloom,  the  sight 
made  him  feel  as  if  a  dead  hand  had  touched  him. 
He  turned  his  head  toward  the  opposite  wall,  and 
there,  etched  dimly  in  the  shadows,  was  another 
figure.  A  few  feet  away  he  glimpsed  a  third,  and  in 
the  distance  were  a  fourth  and  a  fifth. 

In  the  air  there  was  a  creeping  chill,  like  a  breath 
from  a  tomb.  He  felt  no  fear,  but  he  experienced 
the  acute  depression  that  seizes  even  the  strongest 
when  standing  in  the  presence  of  death,  and  his  phys- 
ical and  mental  distress  was  aggravated  by  his  in- 
ability to  move  even  an  arm.  The  stifling  air  made 
him  feel  as  though  he  were  in  a  black  and  silent 
mausoleum,  with  dead  things  on  all  sides. 

An  unaccountable  fascination  caused  him  to  look 
once  more  at  the  luminous  circle.  The  greenish  light 
seemed  to  have  grown  a  trifle  dimmer,  but  the  wan- 
ing of  the  glow  only  lent  an  added  touch  of  hideous- 
ness  to  the  object  in  the  center  of  the  nimbus.  It 
fired  his  imagination,  and  he  fancied  that  something 
loathsome  was  staring  out  at  him  through  the  black 
hollows  where  the  eyes  had  been. 

As  the  circular  light  faded,  he  thought  it  was/ 
drawing  closer  to  where  he  sat.  As  if  gently  pro- 
pelled by  an  invisible  hand,  the  paling  circle  of  light 


THE  PHANTOM  HEARS  A  SCREAM  237 


was  creeping  slowly  nearer,  moving  steadily  toward 
his  chair. 

He  pulled  at  the  ropes.  Now  the  fringe  of  light 
was  so  faint  that  the  skull  was  only  a  shapeless  blur, 
but  its  dimness  rendered  its  creeping  approach  all 
the  more  uncanny.  In  a  little  while,  if  it  continued 
in  its  present  course,  it  would  touch  his  face.  He. 
wondered  why  his  senses  shrank  from  the  encounter, 
for  he  knew  that  the  contact  could  not  harm  him. 

Finally  the  light  died,  leaving  an  intense,  oppres- 
sive darkness.  Though  he  could  neither  hear  nor 
see,  he  was  aware  that  the  object  was  still  creeping 
toward  him  and  that  in  a  few  moments  he  would 
feel  its  chilling  touch.  There  was  something  subtly 
[enervating  about  its  silent  and  stealthy  advance, 
something  that  inspired  him  with  a  feeling  he  had 
never  experienced  when  standing  face  to  face  with 
a  foe  of  flesh  and  blood. 

Then,  without  apparent  cause,  he  sensed  a  change 
in  the  atmosphere.  The  oppression  suddenly  left 
him,  and  he  knew  instinctively  that  something  had' 
halted  the  advance  of  the  dreaded  thing.  He  drew 
a  long,  deep  breath  as  he  tried  to  account  for  the 
relief  that  had  come  so  suddenly  to  him. 

His  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  the  opening  of 
a  door  at  his  back  and  the  entrance  of  two  men.  He 
could  not  see  them,  but  their  footfalls  told  him  that 
they  were  groping  toward  the  point  where  he  sat. 
Silently  they  fell  to  work  and  released  him  from  the 
chair,  but  his  arms  and  legs  were  still  tied  and  he 
was  as  helpless  as  before.  He  wondered,  as  he  was 
being  carried  from  the  room,  what  fresh  ordeal 
awaited  him. 

The  two  men  carried  him  across  the  hall  and  into 
another  room,  where  he  was  placed  in  a  chair.  He 
was  surprised  to  see  the  sunlight  streaming  in 


238      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


through  the  window,  for  the  darkness  from  which  he 
had  just  emerged  had  left  an  impression  of  impene- 
trable night  on  his  mind. 

"The  big  chief  will  be  in  directly,"  announced  one 
of  the  men  as  they  were  leaving. 

The  Phantom  felt  a  thrill  of  expectancy  at  the 
thought  that  at  last  he  was  to  come  face  to  face 
with  the  Duke's  chief  agent.  Then  he  began  to  look 
about  him.  From  where  he  sat,  all  that  was  to  be 
seen  through  the  window  was  the  murky  wall  of  a 
factory  building.  The  room  was  small,  and  the  only 
furniture  was  a  table  and  three  chairs.  In  vain  he 
looked  for  something  that  might  suggest  a  way  of 
•escape. 

He  turned  quickly  as  a  step  sounded  outside  the 
<ioor.  It  came  open,  and  for  several  moments  he. 
stared  at  the  man  who  entered.  Then  he  laughed, 
a  short,  unnatural  laugh  that  sounded  hollow  even  to 
himself.  The  man  who  stood  before  him  was  Doctor 
[Tyson  Bimble. 

He  would  never  have  guessed  that  the  anthropol- 
ogist was  the  man  through  whom  the  Duke  directed 
his  criminal  enterprises  from  his  cell  in  prison,  but 
on  second  thought  the  discovery  was  not  so  surpris- 
ing. Since  their  first  meeting  he  had  suspected  that 
anthropology  was  not  Bimble's  sole  interest  in  life. 
He  had  felt  that  it  wTas  merely  a  cloak  for  other 
activities,  though  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  what 
these  might  be. 

"You  are  pale,"  observed  Bimble,  looking  at  him 
through  his  thick  lenses;  ubut  I  sha'n't  trouble  to 
feel  your  pulse  this  morning.  I  have  no  doubt  it's 
jiormal." 

The  doctor,  with  his  stiltlike  legs  and  top-heavy; 
head,  seemed  as  ludicrous  as  ever,  and  his  face  wore 
the  same  beatific  smile  that  had  greeted  the  Phantom' 


THE  PHANTOM  HEARS  A  SCREAM  239 


when  they  first  met,  but  his  eyes  were  a  trifle  stern, 
and  there  was  an  unfamiliar  briskness  about  his 
movements. 

The  Phantom  swallowed  his  emotions  and  braced 
his  mind  for  a  duel  of  wits  with  the  doctor.  Many 
a  time  in  the  past  he  had  outmaneuvered  men  as 
crafty  as  his  present  adversary.  For  the  present  he 
tried  not  to  think  of  Helen,  for  he  would  need  a 
clear  mind  and  steady  nerves  if  he  was  to  help  her. 

"Have  you  made  any  new  scientific  discoveries 
since  I  saw  you  last,  doctor?"  he  inquired  chattily. 

Bimble's  eyes  twinkled.  uNo;  but  I  dare  say  you 
have.n 

"I  have  discovered  a  new  use  for  skeletons." 

"New?  You  are  mistaken,  my  excellent  friend. 
The  efficacy  of  skeletons  and  like  objects  as  means 
of  moral  suasion  has  been  understood  for  a  long 
time.  I  believe  the  wicked  old  doges  of  Venice  usecj 
similar  methods  when  they  wished  to  put  their  ene- 
mies into  a  receptive  frame  of  mind  and  did  not 
care  to  resort  to  physical  torture.  It  is  strange  how 
all  of  U9 — even  a  strong  man  like  yourself — stand 
in  awe  of  objects  associated  with  death  and  decay." 

"It  is,"  agreed  the  Phantom  dryly.  "But  I  don't 
quite  get  the  idea.  I  admit  the  ghostly  vaudeville 
you  staged  for  my  benefit  was  a  bit  creepy.  I  would 
rather  face  a  regiment  of  smooth  rascals  like  you 
than  a  grinning  skeleton.  But  if  you  expected  me 
to  come  out  of  that  spook  chamber  a  broken  man  you 
are  doomed  to  disappointment." 

"I  didn't,  as  a  matter  of  fact."  The  doctor  smiled 
amusedly.  "I  am  well  aware  that  it  takes  something 
more  than  that  to  break  a  man  like  the  Gray  Phan- 
tom." 

"Then  what  was  the  object?" 

"You  shall  see  presently.    My  friend,  you  have; 


240      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


given  me  no  end  of  trouble.  Since  the  clay  you  made 
your  first  unexpected  appearance  in  my  laboratory, 
I  have  done  my  best  to  save  you  from  the  police, 
but  you  seemed  determined  to  rush  blindly  into  their 
arms.  I  did  not  realize  how  stubborn  and  foolhardy 
you  were  till  the  morning  when  I  entered  your  bed- 
room and  found  it  empty.  You  knew  the  police  were; 
combing  the  town  for  you,  and  I  had  hoped  that 
would  keep  you  in." 

"It  was  a  shameless  abuse  of  hospitality,"  con- 
Jessed  the  Phantom.  "But  I  take  it  you  were  not 
altogether  unselfish  in  your  desire  to  save  me  from 
arrest." 

Bimble  smiled  as  he  ran  his  eyes  up  and  down  the 
Phantom's  figure.  "Borrowed  feathers  are  not  be- 
coming to  you,"  he  observed  critically.  "These  togs 
are  atrocious.  But  the  idea  itself  was  excellent.  I 
'did  not  even  guess  that  the  Gray  Phantom  was  mas- 
querading as  a  newspaper  reporter  until  the  trick 
you  played  on  Pinto  and  Dan  the  Dope  gave  me  an 
inkling  of  the  truth.  Then,  last  evening,  upon  my 
return  from  a  visit  in  the  neighborhood,  I  found  you 
and  Liuetenant  Culligore  in  the  basement  of  my 
house.  The  few  words  I  overheard  were  sufficient 
to  verify  my  suspicions.  I  saw  that  Culligore  had 
you  cornered,  and  I  guessed  you  would  try  to  reach 
the  tunnel.  Then —  But  I  think  you  know  the 
rest." 

"All  except  what  happened  to  Culligore." 

The  doctor  beamed.  "Poor  Culligore!  He's 
really  a  much  cleverer  man  than  you  would  think — 
cleverer  than  yourself,  in  certain  wTays.  An  auto- 
matic equipped  with  a  flash  light  and  a  silencer  put 
a  bullet  into  his  leg  while  he  was  looking  for  you  in 
the  cellar.  A  most  regrettable  accident!"  Bimble 
laughed  softly.    "The  poor  man  is  now  under  my 


THE  PHANTOM  HEARS  A  SCREAM  241 


professional  care,  and  I  fear  he  will  not  be  out  for 
some  time." 

"I  can  guess  the  nature  of  the  professional  atten- 
tions you  are  giving  him.  But  why  were  you  so 
anxious  that  I  should  not  fall  into  the  hands  of  the 
police?" 

"Because  I  had  certain  plans  in  which  you  were 
concerned,  and  your  premature  arrest  would  have 
seriously  interfered  with  them.  Can't  you  guess 
what  they  were?" 

"The  Duke  has  a  goose  to  pick  with  me,  I  believe. 
At  any  rate,  I  understand  he  is  not  very  benevolently 
disposed  toward  me." 

"You  have  been  correctly  advised.  The  Duke  is 
a  very  thoroughgoing  hater,  as  you  will  discover 
before  we  are  through  with  you.  Not  only  that,  but 
he  is  an  adept  in  the  gentle  art  of  mixing  business 
and  pleasure.  He  also  knows  how  to  bring  down  a 
flock  of  birds  with  a  single  stone.  Take,  for  in- 
stance, the  case  of  old  Sylvanus  Gage." 

"Yes,"  murmured  the  Phantom,  fixing  the  doctor 
with  a  keen  gaze,  "the  Duke  showed  his  genius  there. 
He  planned  the  murder  very  shrewdly  so  that  the 
guilt  would  be  fastened  on  me.  It  was  an  admirable] 
way  of  getting  revenge." 

The  doctor  smiled.  "True,  but  it  wasn't  so  simple 
as  all  that.  You  are  not  giving  the  Duke  half  the 
credit  he  deserves.  I  told  you  that  he  always  mixes 
business  and  pleasure.  These  walls  are  deaf,  so 
there  is  no  reason  why  I  should  not  enlighten  you. 
Gage  had  been  for  years  a  member  of  the  Duke's 
organization.  It  was  through  him  the  band  disposed 
of  the  proceeds  from  its  activities.  It  was  a  risky 
business  and  he  lived  in  constant  danger.  Hence  the: 
tunnel,  which  gave  him  a  convenient  avenue  of  escape: 
in  emergencies.   The  housekeeper,  an  estimable  soul, 


242      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


knew  that  her  employer  was  conducting  some  sort  of 
illegitimate  business,  and  she  assisted  him  in  it  to  a 
certain  extent,  which  explains  any  symptoms  of  bad 
conscience  she  may  have  shown.  I  don't  think,  how- 
fever,  that  she  was  aware  of  Gage's  membership  in 
the  Duke's  organization.  Gage  was  a  valuable  man, 
but  his  insatiate  greed  led  him  astray.  He  double- 
crossed  the  band  in  financial  transactions,  and  when 
called  to  task  for  his  crooked  work  he  threatened  to 
cause  trouble.  To  put  it  briefly,  it  was  decided  that 
he  must  be  put  out  of  the  way." 

"I  see."  The  Phantom  smiled,  but  his  eyes  were 
hard.  "The  Duke  avenged  himself  on  two  persons 
with  one  stroke.  He  not  only  removed  Gage,  but 
arranged  matters  so  that  suspicion  for  the  crime 
would  fall  on  me." 

i 'Exactly.  You  are  now  beginning  to  appreciate 
the  Duke's  many-sided  talents.  Of  course,  his  main 
object  was  to  repay  you  for  the  merciless  joke  you 
played  on  him  when  you  put  him  and  most  of  his 
gang  behind  bars.  Where  to  find  you  was  a  poser. 
It  was  known  that  you  had  taken  your  treasures  and 
gone  into  hiding  somewhere,  but  no  one  seemed  to 
have  the  faintest  inkling  of  your  whereabouts. 
Knowing  your  sensitiveness  about  such  matters,  the 
Duke  guessed  that  the  murder  of  Gage,  with  the  cir- 
cumstances pointing  to  you  as  its  perpetrator,  would 
smoke  you  out." 

"It  was  a  good  guess.  I  had  to  come  out  and 
clear  myself,  and  that  gave  the  Duke  his  chance. 
Now  that  you  have  me  where  you  want  me,  what  do 
you  propose  to  do  with  me?  Am  I  to  be  handed 
over  to  the  police,  or  have  you  engaged  passage  for 
me  on  the  Stygian  ferry?" 

The  question  seemed  to  amuse  the  doctor.  "If  we 
meant  to  hand  you  over  to  the  police  we  would 


THE  PHANTOM  HEARS  A  SCREAM  243 


scarcely  have  gone  to  such  great  lengths  to  save  you 
from  arrest.  What  is  to  be  done  with  you  eventually 
hasn't  been  decided  as  yet.  The  Duke's  orders  are 
to  dispose  of  you  in  whichever  way  will  hurt  you 
the  most  and  give  him  the  ultimate  degree  of  revenge. 
There  is  a  question  involved  in  that.  You  are  not 
the  kind  of  man  that  fears  death." 
"Thanks." 

Bimble's  deceptively  mild  eyes  regarded  him  care- 
fully. "I  think  there  are  certain  other  things  that 
wTould  hurt  you  far  more.  For  instance —  But  we 
will  drop  that  phase  of  the  subject  for  the  present 
and  get  down  to  the  more  practical  side.  As  I  told 
you,  the  Duke  always  mixes  business  and  pleasure, 
which  in  this  case  means  a  judicious  blend  of  revenge 
and  profit." 

The  Phantom's  brows  went  up.  A  tinge  of  greed 
and  craftiness  had  dimmed  the  habitual  look  of 
serenity  in  the  doctor's  eyes.  He  was  looking  down 
at  his  scrupulously  polished  shoes  while  playing  with 
his  watch  chain. 

"How?"  asked  the  Phantom.  The  uncertainty 
as  to  his  own  fate  did  not  trouble  him  in  the  least, 
but  all  his  will  power  was  needed  to  maintain  a  sem- 
blance of  coolness  whenever  he  thought  of  Helen. 

"You  put  in  many  very  busy  years  at  the  pleasant 
occupation  of  annexing  other  people's  property," 
murmured  the  doctor.  "The  magnitude  of  your  en- 
terprises has  been  the  talk  of  the  whole  continent. 
There  must  be  a  good  many  millions  stored  away  in' 
that  retreat  of  yours." 

The  Phantom  smiled.  Imaginative  newspaper 
writers  had  pictured  the  Gray  Phantom  living  like 
an  East  Indian  potentate  in  some  snug  retreat,  sur- 
rounded by  countless  treasures  and  a  splendor  that 
would  have  offered  a  gorgeous  Arabian  Nights'  set- 


244      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


ting.  The  fable,  eagerly  swallowed  by  the  public, 
seemed  wildly  grotesque  in  comparison  with  the 
truth. 

■"You're  forgetting  something,  doctor.  I  never 
had  the  Duke's  keen  eye  for  business.  I  was  not  a 
crook  for  the  sake  of  the  loot,  but  for  the  excitement 
1  found  in  the  game,  and  I  usually  gave  the  stuff 
away  after  I  had  had  the  fun  of  taking  it.  I  haven't 
much  that  would  interest  the  Duke." 

The  doctor's  lips  curled  in  a  way  that  indicated 
strong  skepticism.  uYou  will  let  me  be  the  judge 
as  to  that,  my  friend.  All  I  ask  of  you  is  that  you 
tell  me  explicitly  and  veraciously  where  this  collec- 
tion of  yours  may  be  found." 

The  Phantom  drew  himself  up  as  far  as  the  ropes 
permitted.  The  smile  was  still  on  his  lips,  but  in  the 
depths  of  his  eyes  lurked  a  hard  glitter.  "What  if 
I  refuse?" 

"Why,  man,  you  can't  refuse!  You  are  in  no 
position  to  do  anything  but  surrender  to  my  wishes." 

"Wrong,  doctor."  He  gave,  a  low,  metallic  laugh. 
"You  ought  to  know  that  the  Gray  Phantom  never 
surrenders.  Threats  and  bullying  can't  move  me  arf 
inch.   That's  absolutely  final." 

The  doctor  seemed  not  at  all  disconcerted.  "I 
expected  you  to  say  that.  You  are  stubborn  as  a 
mule,  but  fortunately  I  have  means  of  persuasion  at 
my  disposal.    If  I  can't  bend  you,  I  will  break  you."' 

He  rose  abruptly  and  left  the  room.  There  had 
been  something  in  his  tones  that  lingered  in  the 
'Phantom's  ears  after  he  had  gone.  He  was  back 
in  a  few  moments,  and  once  more  his  face  was 
wreathed  in  smiles.  Without  a  word  he  sat  down, 
crossed  his  thin  legs,  and  lighted  a  cigarette,  then 
smoked  in  silence  while  the  Phantom  scanned  his  face; 


THE  PHANTOM  HEARS  A  SCREAM  245 


for  a  clew  to  the  mysterious  erranH  that  haH  taken 
him  out  of  the  room. 

Minutes  passed,  and  still  the  'doctor  smiled  and 
smoked.  From  time  to  time  he  raised  his  tranquil 
jeyes  and  glanced  at  the  door  as  if  expecting  some- 
body, and  all  the  while  there  was  an  air  of  pleasur- 
able anticipation  about  him. 

Suddenly  the  Phantom  stiffened.  For  a  moment 
he  sat  rigid,  listening,  then  jerked  forward  in  the 
chair,  straining  fiercely  at  the  ropes. 

Somewhere  in  the  building  a  woman  had  screamed. 
The  shriek,  sharp  and  explosive,  as  if  inspired  by  a 
terror  long  restrained,  dinned  with  hideous  signifi- 
cance against  the  Phantom's  ears.  His  heart  stood 
still  for  a  moment. 

The  voice  that  had  uttered  that  mad,  unforget- 
table cry  was  Helen  Hardwick's. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 


THE  PHANTOM'S  RUSE 

THE  doctor  placidly  finished  his  cigarette.  The 
sleek,  genial  smile  had  not  left  his  face  for 
an  instant,  and  his  eye  still  held  the  same 
twinkle  of  languid  amusement. 

"Miss  Hardwick  is  a  very  plucky  young  woman,"' 
he  murmured,  "but  evidently  the  spook  chamber,  as 
you  so  aptly  termed  it  a  little  while  ago,  has  proved 
too  much  for  her  nerves.  The  cry  we  just  heard 
seemed  to  indicate  that  she  was  in  great  distress. 
Being  alone  in  a  dark  room  with  nothing  but  skele- 
tons for  company  is  not  a  very  pleasant  experience 
for  a  woman." 

The  Phantom's  face  turned  a  shade  whiter.  For 
a  moment  he  was  dazed  by  the  realization  that 
Helen  was  undergoing  the  same  excruciating  ordeal 
to  which  he  himself  had  been  subjected.  The  ghostly 
spectacle  had  caused  even  his  strong  nerves  to  writhe; 
and  he  shuddered  at  thought  of  the  effect  it  must 
have  on  her  more  delicate  organism. 

"I  gave  you  a  little  taste  of  it  just  to  enable  you 
to  appreciate  Miss  Hardwick's  predicament,"  con- 
tinued the  doctor  in  matter-of-fact  tones.  "The 
arrangement  is  simplicity  itself.  My  excellent 
Jerome  fixed  it  up.  The  scenic  effects  are  so  simple 
that  a  child  could  have  handled  them.  Yet  you  will 
admit,  I  think,  that  they  serve  their  purpose.    I  once 

246 


THE  PHANTOM'S  RUSE  247 


knew  a  person — not  a  weakling,  either — who  went 

mad  under  similar  pressure.    It  is  strange  how  " 

Another  shriek,  not  so  loud  as  the  first,  but  long- 
drawn  and  hoarse,  interrupted  him.  He  paused  for  a 
moment,  eyeing  the  Phantom  with  a  level  glance 
while  the  scream  lasted,  then  fell  to  polishing  his 
lenses. 

"As  I  was  about  to  remark,"  he  went  on,  "it  is 
strange  how  darkness  and  a  touch  of  the  grewsome 
affect  one's  mind.  The  soul  seems  to  shrink  from 
such  things.  The  reason,  I  think,  must  be  atavistic. 
The  poor  wretch  I  was  telling  you  about,  the  one 
who  lost  his  mind  " 

"Stop  it!"  cried  the  Phantom.  His  voice  was 
husky.  "Get  her  out  of  that  room  before  she  goes 
mad!" 

Doctor  Bimble  seemed  suddenly  interested.  "Do 
I  understand  that  you  are  willing  to  listen  to  reason? 
Are  you  ready  to  reconsider  the  suggestion  I  made  a 
while  ago  and  which  you  so  grandiloquently  re- 
jected? In  other  words,  are  you  willing  to  tell  me 
where  your  treasures  are  hidden?" 

"Yes — anything!  I'll  do  whatever  you  ask.  Only 
stop  that  infernal  hocus-pocus  at  once!" 

"Oh,  very  well."  There  was  a  smile  of  keen 
gratification  on  Bimble's  lips  as  he  got  up  and  left 
the  room. 

The  Phantom,  every  limb  shaking,  stared  at  the 
door  through  which  he  had  passed.  Suddenly  his 
blood-streaked  eyes  grew  wide.  He  remembered 
something  that  was  almost  as  terrifying  as  the  shrieks 
he  had  just  heard.  His  thoughts  went  back  to  the 
moment  when  he  had  awakened  in  the  dark  room, 
and  he  recalled  the  snatches  of  conversation  he  had 
overheard. 

One  of  the  two  speakers,  he  was  now  almost  cer- 


248      THE  GEAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


tain,  had  been  Doctor  Bimble.  The  voice  had 
sounded  familiar,  and  he  would  probably  have  recog- 
nized it  but  for  the  dazed  condition  he  was  in.  One 
of  the  doctor's  sentences  had  burned  itself  into  the 
Phantom's  brain: 

"The  young  lady  is  here  to  serve  our  purpose. 
After  that-  *\ 

He  saw  it  all  in  a  blinding  flash  that  scorched  like 
fire.  With  their  usual  cunning  the  Duke's  men  had 
perceived  that  neither  by  torture  nor  by  threats  of 
'death  could  the  Gray  Phantom  be  forced  to  comply 
with  their  desires.  They  had  known  that  he  held 
his  life  lightly  and  could  suffer  personal  punishment 
like  an  Indian.  And  so  their  diabolically  crafty 
minds  had  conceived  the  idea  of  letting  Helen  Hard- 
wick's  agonized  cries  pierce  his  armor  of  pride  and 
obduracy,  thus  accomplishing  what  could  never  have 
been  accomplished  by  other  means. 

They  had  judged  him  accurately,  was  his  grim 
reflection.  Rather  than  see  a  hair  of  Helen's  head 
harmed  he  would  gladly  make  any  sacrifice.  But 
the  sinister  significance  of  the  doctor's  words  had 
been  plain.  The  Phantom  would  not  insure  Helen' 
safety  by  accepting  Bimble's  terms.  Evidently,  Miss 
Hardwick  had  come  into  possession  of  information 
which  the  gang  feared  she  might  divulge  if  set  free 
and  consequently  she  was  to  be  silenced  forever  as 
soon  as  Bimble's  purpose  had  been  attained. 

While  he  awaited  the  doctor's  return  the  Phantom 
(thought  quickly.    By  accepting  Bimble's  terms  he 
would  only  be  hastening  Helen's  doom,  for  the  gang 
having  no  further  use  for  her  after  they  had  gaine 
their  ends,  would  probably  put  her  to  death  quickly 
On  the  other  hand,  by  rejecting  the  conditions,  h 
would  at  least  gain  time.    In  the  meanwhile  Bimbl 
might  inflict  cruel  suffering  upon  her,  but  his  selfis 


THE  PHANTOM'S  RUSE  249 


interests  would  restrain  him  from  taking  Her  life, 
for,  once  he  had  done  so,  his  sole  hold  upon  the 
Phantom  would  be  gone.  ^ 

The  reasoning  was  plain,  but  he  found  it  hard  to 
reach  a  decision.  Perhaps  death  would  be  merciful 
in  comparison  with  the  tortures  that  Bimble  might 
subject  her  to.  He  was  caught  between  the  jaws 
of  a  fearful  dilemma,  and  the  only  sane  course  he 
could  see  was  to  play  for  time. 

Doctor  Bimble  returned.  "Why  do  women  never 
swoon  until  the  worst  is  over?"  he  questioned  in 
whimsical  tones.  "Miss  Hardwick  is  a  surprising 
young  lady,  but  she  is  not  free  from  the  foibles  of 
her  sex.  She  had  no  sooner  been  taken  out  of  the 
dark  room  than  she  promptly  collapsed." 

The  Phantom  held  back  the  biting  words  on  his 
tongue,  but  he  could  not  forego  a  look  of  withering 
contempt. 

"Do  you  know,"  the  doctor  went  on,  "I  am  almost 
certain  that  Miss  Hardwick  knows  where  your  re- 
treat is  located?  In  fact,  she  let  slip  something  that 
convinces  me  she  does.  But  do  you  suppose  the 
stubborn  little  beauty  would  tell?  Not  she !  I  don't 
believe  the  fear  of  eternal  fires  could  force  her  to 
speak." 

He  had  guessed  correctly,  but  the  Phantom  care- 
fully refrained  from  signifying  by  a  look  or  a  word 
that  it  was  so.  Miss  Hardwick  knew  about  Sea- 
Glimpse,  and  it  was  with  mingled  feelings  the  Phan- 
tom heard  of  her  refusal  to  reveal  the  secret.  Had 
she  become  aware,  through  some  process  of  divina- 
tion, that  her  life  would  be  forfeited  the  moment  the 
information  was  in  the  doctor's  possession,  or  had 
she  been  guided  by  other  reasons? 

"So  you  see,"  continued  Bimble  in  smooth  tones, 
"that  you  will  save  the  little  lady  from  all  sorts  of 


250      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


unpleasantness  by  acceding  to  my  very  reasonable 
terms.  It  would  be  a  shame  if  such  a  charming 
woman  should  become  a  gibbering  maniac  as  a  result 
of  obstinacy  on  your  part.  Where  did  you  say  this 
place  of  yours  is  situated?" 

"I  haven't  said  yet."  The  Phantom  forced  a 
laugh.  "Before  I  do,  you  and  I  must  have  a  definite 
understanding.  Do  you  agree  to  set  Miss  Hardwick 
free  the  moment  I  have  given  you  the  information?" 

"What  an  unreasonable  question,  my  dear  Phan- 
tom! I  agree  to  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  shall 
keep  Miss  Hardwick  here  until  I  have  satisfied  my- 
self that  you  have  been  dealing  with  me  on  the  square 
and  that  the  directions  you  have  given  me  are  accu- 
rate." 

"Fair  enough.  But  after  you  have  satisfied  your- 
self in  regard  to  my  good  faith,  what  then?" 

"Then,"  said  the  doctor,  and  there  was  not  a  trace 
of  guile  in  his  face,  "Miss  Hardwick  shall  be  im- 
mediately released." 

"On  your  word  of  honor?" 

"On  my  word  of  honor." 

"Snake!"  the  Phantom  was  tempted  to  say,  but 
he  pretended  to  be  satisfied.  Already  his  mind  was 
inventing  a  ruse.  He  would  gain  several  hours  of 
valuable  time  by  inveigling  the  doctor  into  a  search 
for  a  place  that  had  existence  only  in  the  Phantom's 
imagination.  In  the  meantime  several  things  were 
likely  to  happen.  It  was  just  possible  that  Granger 
had  been  able  to  trace  the  movements  of  the  limou- 
sine and  would  come  to  the  rescue.  At  any  rate,  the 
Phantom  believed  that  if  he  could  but  stave  off  the 
crisis  for  a  while  his  customary  luck  would  once 
more  reassert  itself. 

His  mind  worked  fast.  Doubtless  the  doctor 
knew  that  he  had  arrived  in  New  York  less  than 


THE  PHANTOM'S  RUSE 


251 


twenty-four  hours  after  the  Gage  murder.  Allow- 
ing for  slow  and  infrequent  trains  and  the  time  re- 
quired for  news  to  reach  out-of-the-way  places,  he 
would  have  to  choose  a  point  that  was  not  more  than 
ten  or  twelve  hours  removed  from  New  York.  With 
a  mental  picture  of  the  map  before  his  eyes,  he  out- 
I  lined  a  highly  imaginative  route  to  the  doctor. 

Bimble  made  a  few  notes.  Then  he  looked  up, 
and  for  once  there  was  an  ominous  glint  in  the 
usually  placid  eyes. 

"My  men  will  start  at  once,"  he  announced. 
"They  will  be  instructed  to  wire  me  as  soon  as  they 
have  reached  their  destination.  I  hope,  for  Miss 
Hardwick's  sake,  that  you  have  not  tried  to  deceive 
me." 

With  that  he  was  gone;  but  the  softly  spoken 
words,  edged  with  just  the  faintest  trace  of  a  sinister 
note,  lingered  for  a  long  time  in  the  Phantom's 
memory. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 


PINTO'S  CONFESSION 

THE  Phantom  awoke  with  a  start,  vaguely  con- 
scious that  he  had  been  sleeping  for  several 
hours.  Shortly  after  his  interview  with  Doc- 
tor Bimble,  he  had  been  removed  to  a  small  dark 
room  with  a  single  shuttered  window,  through  which 
no  sunlight  or  air  entered.  The  ropes  around  his 
wrists  and  ankles  had  been  removed,  but  his  move- 
ments were  restricted  by  a  chain  only  a  few  feet  long, 
one  end  of  which  was  padlocked  to  his  right  leg  while 
the  other  was  clamped  to  the  wall. 

Jerome,  more  tight-lipped  than  ever,  had  brought 
him  a  meal,  and  he  had  eaten  with  relish,  after 
which  he  had  lain  down  on  the  cot  and  gone  to  sleep. 
A  lessening  of  his  mental  tension  had  come  with  the 
conviction  that  Helen  was  in  no  immediate  danger 
and  would  be  safe  until  the  doctor  heard  from  his 
messengers,  which  he  probably  would  not  do  until 
after  midnight. 

He  had  slept  soundly,  and  now  he  was  refreshed 
in  body  and  mind.  He  inspected  his  surroundings 
with  a  keen  eye.  The  little  room  was  admirably 
adapted  to  the  purposes  of  a  cell.  Even  if  he  were 
inclined  to  shout  for  help,  the  shutters  doubtless 
would  render  such  an  effort  useless.  The  room  was 
sparsely  lighted  by  an  electric  bulb  in  the  ceiling,  and 
he  noteH  that  the  door,  walls,  and  floor  had  a  sub- 


PINTO'S  CONFESSION 


253 


stantial  appearance.  The  only  objects  within  his 
reach  were  the  cot  and  a  table. 

His  face  fell  as  he  took  an  inventory  of  his 
pockets,  noticing  that  all  that  remained  of  his  belong- 
ings was  a  watch  and  a  handkerchief.  His  wallet, 
with  Dan  the  Dope's  pistol,  was  gone,  and  so  was 
the  little  metal  box  that  on  so  many  occasions  had 
enabled  him  to  squeeze  out  of  tight  corners.  The 
chain  was  not  heavy,  but  strong  enough  to  resist  all 
the  force  he  could  muster,  and  each  end  was  fastened 
in  a  way  that  left  him  no  hope  of  escape. 

"The  worthy  doctor  is  taking  no  chances,"  he 
muttered.  "He  has  left  me  as  helpless  as  a  newborn 
babe.    Wonder  where  I  am." 

He  had  no  idea  where  the  black  limousine  had 
taken  him,  for  it  had  traveled  a  devious  course,  and 
he  had  been  chloroformed  before  it  reached  its  des- 
tination. He  was  certain  he  was  not  in  Doctor 
Bimble's  house,  for  he  had  searched  that  dwelling 
from  cellar  to  attic  and  there  had  been  no  room  in 
it  that  resembled  this  one.  Probably  he  was  in  some 
other  house  controlled  by  Doctor  Bimble  or  one  of 
his  associates. 

After  all,  where  he  was  did  not  matter,  greatly. 
The  one  thing  that  concerned  him  was  his  helpless- 
ness, for  evidently  the  doctor  had  taken  every  con- 
ceivable precaution  against  his  prisoner's  escape. 
Everything  considered,  it  was  as  hopeless  a  situation 
as  the  Phantom  had  ever  faced. 

A  glance  at  his  watch  told  him  it  was  nearly  four 
o'clock.  He  had  eight  hours  in  which  to  accomplish 
the  seemingly  impossible  before  the  doctor  should 
learn  from  his  agents  that  they  had  been  sent  out  on 
a  wild-goose  chase.  He  shuddered  as  he  contem- 
plated what  would  be  the  consequences  if  he  failed. 
Yet,  he  told  himself,  the  course  he  had  taken  was 


254      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


the  only  one  possible  under  the  circumstances.  If 
he  had  directed  the  doctors  agents  to  Sea-Glimpse, 
Helen's  usefulness  to  the  organization  would  have 
been  ended,  and  then  

He  turned  quickly  as  the  door  opened,  admitting 
Doctor  Bimble,  with  a  newspaper  in  his  hand. 

4 'Thought  you  would  be  interested  in  the  news 
about  Pinto,"  began  the  doctor,  advancing  some- 
what cautiously  and  taking  care  not  to  step  within 
the  narrow  half  circle  that  bounded  his  prisoner's 
movements.  The  Phantom  regarded  him  languidly, 
for  his  mind  was  on  other  things. 

"Has  Pinto  recovered  consciousness?"  he  asked 
indifferently. 

Bimble  nodded.  "Much  sooner  than  the  doctors 
expected,  and  he  has  celebrated  his  return  to  con- 
sciousness by  making  a  rather  interesting  statement.', 

"Not  a  confession?"  The  Phantom  was  still 
speaking  in  dull  tones.  In  the  last  few  days  he  had 
almost  lost  sight  of  the  purpose  that  had  called  him 
to  New  York.  The  danger  threatening  Helen 
Hardwick  had  seemed  far  more  important  than  the 
mystery  of  the  two  murders. 

"Well,  you  might  call  it  that,  though  it  probably 
isn't  the  kind  of  confession  you  have  in  mind.  Pinto 
has  made  a  clean  breast  of  everything,  but  he  still 
insists  that  you  murdered  Gage." 

"That's  a  contradiction,"  mumbled  the  Phantom. 
"He  is  not  making  a  clean  breast  of  things  so  long 
as  he  denies  his  guilt." 

"His  statement  sounds  fairly  convincing,  neverthe- 
less. He  admits  practically  everything  except  that 
he  committed  the  murder.  For  instance,  he  frankly 
admits  that  he  concealed  the  body  of  the  housekeeper 
and  

"That  in  itself  is  evidence  of  his  guilt." 


PINTO'S  CONFESSION 


255 


"But  Pinto  has  what  looks  like  a  satisfactory  ex- 
planation. He  seems  to  be  an  honest,  hard-working, 
unimaginative  fellow,  not  overintelligent,  and  deeply 
devoted  to  his  wife  and  baby.  You  probably  know 
the  type.  He  says  that  for  months  before  Gage  was 
murdered  he  had  a  queer  premonition  that  something 
of  that  kind  was  to  happen,  and  he  never  passed  the 
house  without  an  uneasy  feeling.  I  suppose  what  he 
really  means  is  that  he  had  noticed  signs  of  strange 
doings  about  the  place,  and  that  without  analyzing 
his  impressions  he  found  it  getting  on  his  nerves. 

"Pinto  reiterates  his  previous  assertion  that  Gage 
made  a  dying  statement  accusing  you  of  the  crime. 
He  admits,  however,  that  he  felt  nervous  about  the 
whole  affair.  The  poor  fellow  was  in  a  very  trying 
position.  After  forcing  the  door,  which  was  bolted 
on  the  inside,  and  listening  to  Gage's  dying  words, 
he  made  a  careful  examination  of  the  room,  paying 
particular  attention  to  the  little  window  which  was 
so  narrow  that  no  grown  person  could  possibly  have 
crawled  through  it.  He  did  not  understand  how 
tven  an  accomplished  person  like  the  Phantom  could 
have  committed  the  murder  and  escaped  from  the 
room. 

"Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  Pinto  got  panicky.  Even 
his  crude  intellect  perceived  that  it  looked  as  though 
nobody  but  himself  could  have  committed  the  mur- 
der. He  thought  of  his  wife  and  his  baby,  and  he 
did  not  relish  the  idea  of  being  tried  for  murder. 
As  he  saw  it,  he  might  easily  be  convicted  and  sent 
to  the  chair.  However,  his  fears  proved  unfounded, 
"for  nobody  accused  him  of  the  crime,  and  Pinto 
could  breathe  freely  once  more." 

"But  what  about  the  housekeeper?"  inquired  the 
Phantom,  gradually  becoming  more  interested. 

"I  am  coming  to  that.   After  the  murder  of  Gage, 


£56      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


Pinto  got  into  the  habit  o£  visiting  the  house  between; 
rounds.  He  was  still  hoping  to  discover  a  way 
whereby  the  Phantom  could  have  escaped  from  the 
room.  Late  one  night,  according  to  his  statement, 
he  found  the  housekeeper's  body  in  the  same  room 
where  Gage  had  been  murdered.  He  says  the  body 
was  still  warm,  so  the  woman  could  not  have  been 
dead  long.  At  the  discovery  all  his  fears  returned 
with  trebled  force.  The  supposition,  he  thought, 
would  be  that  the  murderer  of  Gage  had  also  killed 
Mrs.  Trippe.  The  Gray  Phantom  was  supposed  to 
be  in  jail  at  the  time  and  therefore  could  not  be 
accused  of  having  murdered  the  housekeeper. 

"Pinto  was  in  a  terrible  quandary.  Since,  as  he 
thought  at  the  time,  the  Phantom  could  not  have 
murdered  Mrs.  Trippe,  it  might  be  questioned 
whether  he  had  murdered  Gage.  The  whole  case 
might  be  reopened,  in  which  event  he  feared  the 
finger  of  suspicion  must  inevitably  point  to  him. 
'Again  Pinto  thought  of  his  wife  and  baby,  and,  the 
more  he  thought  of  them,  the  more  nervous  he  be- 
came. He  did  a  foolish  thing,  as  men  often  do  when 
Ifear  conquers  reason.  He  could  think  of  nothing 
to  do  but  cover  up  the  crime  until  he  could  get  a 
chance  to  think  the  thing  over,  and  so  he  carried 
the  body  upstairs  and  concealed  it  behind  some  pack- 
ing cases.  Later,  after  it  developed  that  the  Phan- 
tom had  not  been  in  jail  and  had  no  alibi,  he  saw 
no  reason  for  concealing  the  body  longer.  He  ex- 
plains at  length  what  happened  when  he  went  to  the 
storeroom  to  drag  it  out  and  was  interrupted  by 
you." 

Bimble  smiled  blandly,  but  he  was  studying  the 
Phantom's  face  out  of  the  corner  of  an  eye.  "What 
'do  you  think  of  Pinto's  confession?" 

The  Phantom  considered  while  he  glanced  at  the 


PINTO'S  CONFESSION 


257 


papers  Bimble  handed  him.  The  statement  was 
there,  just  as  summarized  by  the  doctor.  Granting 
a  crude  intellect  and  a  mind  not  too  analytical,  he 
thought  it  quite  possible  that  an  innocent  man  might 
act  exactly  as  described  in  Pinto's  statement. 
Further,  the  story  had  all  the  earmarks  of  truth,  for 
a  guilty  mind  would  have  tried  to  invent  a  less  gro- 
tesque tale.  Of  a  sudden  the  Phantom  found  that 
all  his  calculations  and  theories  in  regard  to  the 
murder  had  been  upset  by  Pinto's  surprising  and  un- 
expected explanation. 

"Why  ask  me?'*  was  his  reply.  "You  know  the 
murderer." 

"Perhaps.  I  was  just  curious  to  hear  what  you 
would  think." 

There  was  a  wrinkle  of  perplexity  on  the  Phan- 
tom's brow.  Assuming  that  Pinto  was  innocent,  the 
difficulties  in  the  way  of  solving  the  mystery  and 
.exculpating  himself  had  been  vastly  complicated. 

"If  Pinto  didn't  do  it,"  persisted  the  doctor 
suavely,  "who  do  you  suppose  did?" 

The  Phantom  could  not  tell  why,  but  the  question 
gave  him  a  mental  jolt.  In  the  past  few  hours  his 
concern  for  Helen  had  claimed  all  his  thoughts,  and 
before  that  he  had  been  so  firmly  convinced  of 
Pinto's  guilt  that  there  had  been  no  room  in  his  mind 
for  other  suspicions.  The  possibility  that  someone 
other  than  the  policeman  might  be  involved  haH  not 
occurred  to  him. 

He  looked  up  and  found  the  doctor's  soft  eyes 
searching  his  face  with  an  odd  intensity.  Bimble 
seemed  intent  on  ascertaining  what  deductions  his 
prisoner  would  make  from  Pinto's  statement,  and 
apparently  this  had  been  the  only  reason  for  his  call. 

"My  question  seems  to  have  stumped  you,"  he 
observed. 


258      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


The  Phantom  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "With 
Pinto  eliminated,  I'm  entirely  at  sea.  In  view  of  the 
bolted  door  and  the  size  of  the  window,  I  don't  see 
how  anyone  else  could  have  murdered  Gage,  un- 
less— "  He  checked  himself  abrupdy,  and  of  a 
sudden  he  saw  a  great  light.  In  the  next  instant  a 
smile  masked  his  agitation.  "Unless,"  he  finished 
with  a  chuckle,  "I  did  it  myself." 

Bimble  seemed  satisfied.  "Excellent  logic,  my 
friend,"  he  murmured  as  he  stepped  to  the  door. 
With  his  hand  on  the  knob  he  turned  and  fixed  his 
gaze  on  the  Phantom's  face.  "I  shall  pay  you  an- 
other visit  as  soon  as  I  hear  from  my  men." 

His  tone  carried  a  sinister  emphasis,  but  the  Phan- 
tom scarcely  noticed  it. 

"With  Pinto  eliminated,"  he  said  half  aloud  when 
the  door  had  closed,  "only  one  other  person  could 
have  committed  the  murders.  And  I  know  that 
person!" 


CHAPTER  XXIX 


THE  PHANTOM'S  VISITOR 

WITH  quick  and  nervous  steps  the  Phantom 
walked  back  and  forth  within  the  narrow 
semicircle  allowed  him  by  the  chain.  The 
solution  of  the  mystery  had  come  to  him  in  a  flash 
of  intuition,  but  his  elation  had  been  brief.  It  was 
now  half  past  eleven,  and  after  cudgeling  his  wits 
for  hours,  he  found  the  problem  of  how  to  extricate 
himself  and  Helen  from  their  predicament  as  insolv- 
able  as  ever. 

Soon  Bimble  would  receive  word  from  his  mes- 
sengers that  they  had  been  hoaxed,  and  then  Helen 
would  be  subjected  to  another  agonizing  ordeal  in 
the  dark  room.  The  Phantom  shuddered  as  his 
imagination  pictured  her  strapped  to  the  chair  in  that 
chamber  of  ghastly  things.  Again  he  looked  sharply 
about  the  room,  hoping  against  hope  that  something 
would  suggest  a  way  of  escape  to  him. 

He  found  nothing.  The  only  objects  were  the  cot 
and  the  table,  and  they  offered  no  solution  whatever. 
His  pockets  contained  nothing  but  a  handkerchief 
and  a  watch,  together  with  the  cigarettes  and 
matches  Jerome  had  brought  him  with  his  dinner. 
At  least  a  score  of  times  during  the  late  afternoon 
and  evening  he  had  given  the  chain  a  minute  inspec- 
tion, only  to  be  convinced  that  it  could  not  be  tam- 
pered with.    With  the  aid  of  a  small  nail  or  a  pen- 

259 


260      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN, 


knife  he  might  have  been  able  to  pick  the  lock  that 
held  it  to  his  ankle,  but  not  even  a  pin  had  been  left 
him. 

The  Phantom  was  all  but  ready  to  admit  defeat. 
His  only  fortifying  thought  was  that  he  had  never 
yet  been  the  loser  in  a  game  of  wits,  and  that  for 
Helen's  sake  he  could  not  fail  now. 

He  rose  quickly  from  the  cot  as  the  door  opened 
and  Doctor  Bimble  strode  into  the  room.  His  face 
was  dark,  and  a  look  of  sullen  anger  had  taken  the 
place  of  his  usual  smile. 

"You  lied  I"  he  declared  gruffly.  "I  half  suspected 
you  would,  but  I  hardly  thought  you  would  attempt 
anything  so  clumsy  as  this.  What  have  you  gained 
by  it?" 

"Time,"  said  the  Phantom,  pretending  a  coolness 
he  did  not  feel. 

The  doctor  laughed  derisively.  There  was  a  dull 
flush  in  his  cheeks  and  an  ugly  glitter  in  his  :eyes,  but 
again  he  took  care  not  to  step  within  the  Phantom's 
reach. 

"Time!  Bah!  Really,  Vanardy,  you're  simpler 
than  I  thought.  Just  as  if  a  few  hours  more  or  less 
could  make  any  difference!  You  will  either  tell  me 
what  I  want  to  know,  or,  Miss  Hardwick  will  go  to 
the  madhouse  or  the  grave.  She  will  be  as  harmless 
in  one  place  as  in  the  other.  I  trust  you  under- 
stand?" 

"Your  meaning  is  perfectly  clear."  The  Phantom 
spoke  in  level  tones.  "If  you  would  come  a  step 
closer,  I  should  take  extreme  pleasure  in  beating  you 
within  an  inch  of  your  life.  But  you  have  no  incli- 
nation in  that  direction,  I  see.  Like  most  of  your 
kind,  you  are  a  coward." 

"Words  never  hurt." 

"Furthermore,"  continued  the  Phantom,  "you  will 


THE  PHANTOM'S  VISITOR  261 


be  in  jail  before  Miss  HarHwlck  goes  to  either  of 
the  places  you  have  just  mentioned." 

"Jail?"  The  doctor  stared  as  if  he  thought  the 
statement  utterly  preposterous.  "Jail !  Ha,  ha! 
Good  joke  coming  from  a  man  who  can't  move  six 
'feet." 

"Enjoy  it  while  you  can.  As  you  may  remember, 
I  perpetrated  the  same  kind  of  joke  on  the  Duke, 
and  he  doesn't  seem  to  relish  that  brand  of  humor." 

The  doctor  winced  as  if  an  unpleasant  thought  had 
been  suggested  to  him,  then  walked  stiffly  to  the  door. 
"Remember,"  was  his  parting  shot,  "if  you  persist  in 
your  obstinacy,  it  will  be  either  the  madhouse  or  the 
grave  for  Miss  Hardwick." 

He  slammed  the  door  as  he  went  out,  and  the; 
Phantom's  face  sobered  the  moment  he  was  alone. 
His  threat  had  not  been  altogether  an  idle  one,  for 
it  had  driven  a  wholesome  misgiving  into  the  doc- 
tor's heart;  yet  the  Phantom  was  painfully  aware 
that  he  was  in  a  desperate  situation.  Throwing 
himself  on  the  cot,  he  turned  the  problem  over  and 
over  in  his  mind.  Black  as  the  outlook  seemed,  he 
could  scarcely  believe  that  all  was  lost.  He  still  had 
faith  in  his  star,  and  it  was  this  that  had  braced  him 
and  enabled  him  to  speak  with  such  confidence  in 
Doctor  Bimble's  presence. 

After  a  while  something  drew  his  gaze  to  the; 
i  window.  He  listened  intently.  A  faint  scraping 
sound  reached  his  ears,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that 
it  had  been  going  on  for  several  minutes,  though  he 
had  been  too  preoccupied  to  notice  it  until  now.  He 
got  up  and  stepped  as  close  to  the  window  as  the 
chain  permitted.  Now  he  heard  it  again — a  slow, 
5iull  grinding  and  scraping  that  remotely  suggested 
that  someone  was  attacking  a  metallic  object  with  a 
blunt  tool. 


262      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


He  waited  breathlessly.  Evidently  someone  was 
trying  to  enter  the  room,  and  he  wondered  whether 
the  intruder  was  coming  as  friend  or  foe.  Perhaps 
the  amazing  luck  that  had  so  often  turned  a  critical 
situation  in  his  favor  was  once  more  coming  back  to 
him. 

A  click  sounded,  then  the  boards  in  front  of  the 
window  came  apart,  and  the  Phantom  gaspred  as 
Thomas  Granger  jumped  into  the  room. 

"You!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Not  so  loud!"  whispered  the  reporter.  He  was 
still  wearing  the  Phantom's  clothing,  and  the  gar- 
ments were  wrinkled  and  streaked  with  dirt.  "The 
house  is  full  of  members  of  the  Duke's  gang.  Holy, 
smoke,  you're  certainly  in  a  fix!" 

He  stared  at  the  cabin,  then  looked  quickly  about 
the  room.  "Don't  ask  me  how  I  found  you.  I  had 
a  devil  of  a  time,  and  it's  a  longer  story  than  I've 
got  time  to  tell.  Lookouts  are  stationed  in  front 
and  in  rear,  and  it  was  only  by  sheer  luck  and  some 
quick  fist  work  that  I  got  through.  How  am  I  to 
get  you  out  of  here?" 

The  Phantom  regarded  him  thoughtfully.  "Didn't 
you  know  that  Doctor  Bimble  was  the  Duke's  chief 
representative?"  he  asked. 

"Never  had  the  faintest  idea." 

"This  room  is  in  the  rear  of  the  house,  I  believe." 

"Yes,  but  " 

"You  were  lucky  to  locate  my  window  as  easily  as 
you  did." 

"That  wasn't  luck.  I  tried  several  before  I  found 
yours.  Twice  I  bumped  into  the  Duke's  men.  I 
hate  to  think  what  that  bunch  would  do  to  me  if  they 
caught  me."  He  made  a  wry  face.  "But  this  isn't 
getting  you  out  of  here.  We'll  have  to  get  a  move 
on." 


THE  PHANTOM'S  VISITOR  263 


Strangely  enough,  the  Phantom  seemed  absolutely 
calm  and  in  no  hurry  whatever.  "I  haven't  been 
able  to  get  my  bearings,"  he  announced.  "Where  is 
this  house?" 

"Next  door  to  Doctor  Bimble's." 

The  Phantom  started.  "The  one  with  boarded 
windows  and  doors?" 

"That's  the  one.  The  front  is  boarded  up,  and 
from  the  street  it  looks  like  a  vacant  house.  No- 
body would  suspect  that  it  was  the  headquarters  of 
the  Duke's  gang.  I  supose  Bimble  owns  or  controls 
both  houses,  and  there  is  probably  a  connecting  pas- 
sage somewhere." 

The  Phantom  knitted  his  brows.  He  had  seen  no 
such  passage  when  he  searched  the  Bimble  residence. 
However,  that  proved  nothing,  for  it  might  be  so 
carefully  concealed  that  a  hasty  search  would  not 
reveal  it.  The  arrangement,  he  thought,  was  rather 
ingenious.  No  one  who  had  seen  the  anthropol- 
ogist's home,  where  everything  suggested  artlessness 
and  love  of  simple  comforts,  would  have  suspected 
that  the  occupant  was  using  the  adjacent  house  for 
the  conduct  of  criminal  enterprises. 

"Miss  Hardwick  is  somewhere  in  the  building," 
he  remarked.  "Her  safety  is  the  first  considera- 
tion." 

"Worse  still.  You  and  I  might  be  able  to  fight 
our  way  through,  but  with  a  woman  on  our  hands 
it's  almost  certain  death.  It  wouldn't  be  so  bad  if 
there  weren't  so  many  against  us.  I  have  only  one 
gat.    How  about  you?" 

"A  watch,  a  handkerchief,  a  package  of  cigarettes 
and  some  matches  are  my  sole  possessions  just  now." 

The  reporter  scowled.  "The  Duke's  men  would 
be  sure  to  pounce  on  us  before  we  could  get  her  out 


264      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


of  the  house,  and  I  don't  suppose  Miss  Hardwick  is 
bullet-proof." 

"What  would  you  suggest?" 

Granger  reflected.  "Have  you  any  friends  in 
town?" 

uAs  far  as  I  know,  Peng  Yuen  is  the  only  one. 
There  may  be  others,  but  I  wouldn't  know  where  to 
find  them." 

"Peng  Yuen  doesn't  look  much  like  a  scrapper. 
We  can't  appeal  to  the  police,  for  they  are  after  you 
just  as  hard  as  the  Duke's  men  are.  I'd  give  half 
my  life  to  be  able  to  meet  that  bunch  in  a  fair  and 
even  fight.  Too  bad  you  haven't  any  friends  handy. 
Say" — and  Granger  looked  as  though  he  had  sud- 
denly snatched  an  inspiration  out  of  the  air — "what 
about  the  place  where  you  live?  Haven't  you  got 
some  friends  there?" 

The  Phantom  looked  thoughtful.  Rumor  had  it 
that  he  had  taken  a  few  carefully-selected  members 
of  his  former  organization  with  him  to  his  place  of 
retirement.   His  lips  twitched  a  little. 

"It  would  take  sometime  to  get  them  here,"  he 
murmured,  "and  we  must  act  in  a  hurry." 

"But  it's  our  only  chance.  We'll  wire  them  to  get 
a  fast  car  and  burn  up  the  roads.  I'm  rather  stuck 
on  the  idea  of  organizing  an  expedition  and  rushing 
to  the  rescue  of  a  fair  lady  in  distress.  Write  out 
your  telegram,  and  I'll  sneak  out  and  file  it." 

The  Phantom,  chuckling  as  though  he  had  caught 
the  contagion  of  the  other's  enthusiasm,  made  as  if, 
searching  his  pockets  for  pencil  and  paper.  "All 
right.  I  guess,  after  all,  it  is  the  only  thing  we  cart 
do.  A  pitched  battle  in  the  heart  of  New  York  will 
be  something  of  a  novelty.  Have  you  a  pencil  and 
a  scrap  of  paper?" 

Granger  stepped  up  to  the  table  and  handed  out 


THE  PHANTOM'S  VISITOR  265 


the  desired  articles.  With  the  reporter  standing  at 
his  elbow,  the  Phantom  placed  the  paper  on  the 
table,  poised  the  pencil  over  it,  and  stood  as  if  fram- 
ing a  message  in  his  mind.  Suddenly,  with  a  motion 
as  quick  as  that  of  a  metallic  spring,  his  hand  darted 
out  and  gripped  Granger's.  Then,  with  another 
surprisingly  swift  movement,  he  jerked  the  reporter 
down  on  the  cot  and  shoved  a  knee  against  his  chest. 

"Tommie  Granger,"  he  said  in  low,  measured 
tones  that  throbbed  with  exultation,  "I've  been  wait- 
ing a  long  time  to  lay  my  hands  on  the  murderer  of 
Gage  and  Mrs.  Trippe." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  ROOM  IN  THE  BASEMENT 

THE  reporter's  face  went  white. 
With  lips  gaping,  he  lay  rigidly  still,  staring 
into  the  Phantom's  hard  face.  There  was  a 
look  of  great  fear  in  his  eyes,  and  for  several  mo- 
ments he  seemed  incapable  of  motion.  Then  he: 
began  to  wriggle,  twist,  and  squirm,  but  his  efforts 
were  rendered  futile  by  the  knee  on  his  chest  and 
the  firm  clutch  in  which  his  hands  were  held. 

"When  did  you  guess  it?"  he  muttered,  forcing  a 
sneering  grin  to  his  face. 

uJust  a  little  while  ago.  I've  acted  the  simpleton 
throughout  the  whole  affair.  I  was  so  sure  of 
Pinto's  guilt  that  it  never  occurred  to  me  to  suspect 
anyone  else.  The  moment  Pinto  was  eliminated,  I 
knew  you  were  the  murderer.  I  saw  then  what  I 
should  have  seen  at  once — that  Gage  was  murdered 
by  a  man  who  looked  so  much  like  me  that,  when 
Gage  saw  the  face  of  the  scoundrel,  he  was  sure  it 
was  the  Gray  Phantom.  That's  why  he  told  Pinto 
that  I  was  the  murderer." 

Granger  drew  in  his  breath  and  opened  his  mouth 
as  if  to  shout  for  help,  but  the  knee  pressing  against 
his  chest  strangled  the  cry. 

"It  was  all  very  cleverly  arranged,"  the  Phantom 
went  on,  "I  suppose  you  were  selected  for  the  job 
because  you  happen  to  resemble  me.    The  very  en- 

266 


THE  ROOM  JN  THE  BASEMENT  267 


tertaining  story  you  told  me  at  Peng  Yuen's  was 
probably  a  skillful  blending  of  truth  and  fiction. 
How  you  happened  to  join  the  Duke's  gang  and  how 
you  carried  out  its  orders  under  cover  of  your  pro- 
fession really  make  no  difference.  The  only  thing 
that  matters  is  that  you're  going  to  the  chair  for 
those  two  murders." 

The  reporter,  gathering  his  wits,  gave  a  con- 
temptuous laugh.  "The  chair,  eh?  Not  just  yet,  I 
guess.  Several  things  are  likely  to  happen  to  you 
first." 

"That  remains  to  be  seen.  You  are  fairly  clever, 
Granger,  but  your  cleverness  won't  help  you  now. 
You  hood-winked  the  police  very  neatly.  They  had 
the  murderer  once,  but  they  felt  so  sure  I  was  the 
man  they  wanted  that  they  let  you  go  as  soon  as  you. 
had  satisfied  them  you  were  not  the  Gray  Phantom. 
It  was  a  fairly  good  joke.  I  perpetrated  another 
good  joke  myself  when  I  went  to  you  and  borrowed 
your  identity,  never  guessing  that  you  were  the  mur- 
derer. You  took  it  all  in  good  part,  because  you 
couldn't  do  anything  else,  but  all  the  while  you  were 
scheming  to  hand  me  over  to  the  Duke's  crowd." 

"It  was  rich!  You  were  so  easily  taken  in  that 
I  had  to  laugh  whenever  you  turned  your  back." 

"I  admit  it.  The  reason  you  took  me  in  so  easily 
was  partly  because  you  were  a  member  of  an  honor- 
able profession,  and  partly  because  of  the  note 
handed  me  by  Dan  the  Dope,  which  seemed  to  prove 
that  you  were  on  bad  terms  with  the  Duke's  crowd. 
That  appeared  to  confirm  your  story  that  you  had 
joined  the  organization  for  the  sole  purpose  of  ob- 
taining inside  information.  The  'details  of  your 
relations  with  the  gang  are  not  clear  to  me  yet,  but 
neither  are  they  important.  If  you  don't  mind,  I'll 
relieve  you  of  this  handy  little  implement." 


*68      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


With  a  deft  motion  he  reached  into  Granger's 
pocket  and  extracted  the  reporter's  automatic.  Then 
he  removed  the  knee  from  the  man's  chest  and  cov- 
ered him  with  the  weapon. 

"The  cutest  trick  of  them  all,"  he  continued  with 
a  grim  chuckle,  "was  your  crawling  in  here  to-night 
through  the  window  and  pretending  to  have  eluded 
the  Duke's  sentinels.  Of  course,  the  sole  object  of 
your  dramatic  entrance  was  to  inveigle  me  into  re- 
vealing the  whereabouts  of  the  place  where  I  live. 
I  suppose  the  worthy  doctor  had  begun  to  despair 
of  his  ability  to  worm  the  information  out  of  me  by 
the  original  plan.  It  threatened  to  take  too  long  and 
entail  too  many  risks,  and  so  he  thought  he  would 
try  a  short  cut.  You  led  up  to  the  proposition  very 
adroidy,  but  I  saw  through  the  ruse  almost  at  once." 

Granger,  having  got  a  precarious  grip  on  his 
nerves,  laughed  shakily.  "You're  a  first-class  guesser 
— but  guessing  won't  get  you  out  of  this  fix.  It  isn't 
very  likely  you'll  ever  see  daylight  again.  As  for 
the  dear  girl  " 

"Leave  her  out  of  it!"  commanded  the  Phantom 
curtly.  He  thought  it  unlikely  Miss  Hardwick  would 
be  molested  further  until  Bimble  had  learned  the; 
result  of  Granger's  mission.  In  the  meantime,  he 
told  himself,  he  must  make  the  most  of  the  slight  ad- 
vantage he  had  gained.  He  studied  the  reporter 
keenly,  and  all  at  once  an  inspiration  came  to  him. 
"Miss  Hardwick,"  he  went  on  in  casual  tones,  "has 
an  amazing  knack  of  taking  care  of  herself.  It 
wouldn't  surprise  me  at  all  if  she  had  already  found 
a  way  out  of  the  amiable  doctor's  clutches." 

"Hardly!"  Granger  gave  another  hoarse,  sneer- 
ing laugh.  "She's  smart,  all  right,  but  the  big  chie£ 
knows  it,  and  he  isn't  taking  any  chances.  He  has 
locked  her  up  in  the  basement,  in  a  room  barely  large 


THE  ROOM  IN  THE  BASEMENT  269 


enough  to  turn  around  in,  with  a  stout  door  and  no 
window." 

"The  basement,  eh?"  The  Phantom  seemed  not 
at  all  interested.  "This  room  we  are  in  is  on  the  sec- 
ond floor,  isn't  it?" 

"Third,"  said  Granger,  after  puzzling  for  a  mo- 
ment over  the  question. 

"Good!"  The  Phantom  smiled.  "You  have  told 
me  exactly  what  I  wanted  to  know,  Granger,  and 
since  you  couldn't  know  the  object  of  my  questions,  I 
believe  that  for  once  you  have  spoken  the  truth. 
Kindly  elevate  your  hands." 

A  thrust  with  the  pistol  emphasized  the  command, 
and  Granger  sullenly  obeyed.  With  his  free  hand 
the  Phantom  explored  the  reporter's  pockets  until  he 
found  a  small  silver-handled  knife. 

"My  property,  I  believe,"  he  murmured,  examin- 
ing the  tool  with  a  critical  eye.  "It's  one  of  the  things 
you  acquired  when  we  swapped  clothes  and  identi- 
ties. A  very  handy  article,  Granger.  I've  been  wish- 
ing all  night  for  something  of  this  kind,  but  the  doc- 
tor thoughtfully  emptied  my  pockets.  Sit  very  still, 
Granger." 

He  spoke  with  a  brisk,  cutting  emphasis.  Moving 
to  the  other  end  of  the  cot  and  keeping  one  eye  on 
Granger,  he  opened  the  knife  and  with  the  sharp- 
pointed  blade  began  to  pick  at  the  lock  that  held  the 
chain  to  his  ankle.  The  pistol  lay  close  at  his  side, 
ready  to  be  picked  up  at  a  moment's  warning.  In 
a  short  time  the  lock  had  yielded  to  the  deft  touch 
of  his  fingers,  and  his  ankle  was  free  before  Granger 
quite  realized  what  he  was  doing.  A  shout  rose  in 
the  reporter's  throat,  but  in  an  instant  the  Phantom's 
fingers  were  at  his  windpipe. 

"Quiet!"  he  warned.  "I  don't  care  to  be  inter- 
rupted just  yet.    Granger,  I  don't  like  the  togs  Fyg 


270      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


been  wearing  the  last  few  days,  and  you  have  worn 
mine  just  about  long  enough.  We  are  going  to  make 
a  quick  change.    Strip  !" 

The  reporter  glared,  but  his  lips  trembled  and  the 
shaking  of  his  limbs  indicated  that  he  was  in  need  of 
his  favorite  stimulant. 

"Hurry!"  urged  the  Phantom,  making  a  little 
flourish  rith  the  pistol.  "Bimble  is  likely  to  walk  in 
on  us  at  any  moment  to  see  what  is  keeping  you  so 
long.  Will  you  strip  voluntarily,  or  must  I  tap  you 
on  the  head  and  undress  you?  I  don't  like  to  be 
rough." 

The  reporter  seemed  impressed  by  the  argument. 
With  surly  acquiescence  he  kicked  off  his  shoes  and 
started  removing  his  suit.  The  Phantom,  a  thin  smile 
hovering  about  his  lips,  followed  the  other's  example, 
keeping  the  pistol  within  easy  reach  while  the  ex- 
change was  in  progress.  In  a  little  while  he  was  once 
more  garbed  in  the  familiar  gray  which  was  his  favor- 
ite color. 

"This  is  better!"  he  commented.  With  an  absent- 
minded  air  he  picked  up  the  chain.  For  a  moment 
or  two  his  fingers  toyed  with  the  lock;  then,  stooping 
quickly,  he  looped  the  end  of  the  chain  around  Gran- 
ger's leg.  The  reporter  growled  out  a  curse  as  the 
lock  snapped  shut. 

"Put  your  hands  behind  you!"  commanded  the 
Phantom,  again  making  a  menacing  gesture  with  the 
pistol.  The  reporter,  his  ashen  face  twitching,  glow- 
ered savagely  as  he  obeyed,  and  in  a  few  moments  the 
strings  had  been  removed  from  his  shoes  and  twisted 
tightly  about  his  wrists.  Finally  the  Phantom  tore  a 
strip  from  the  table-cloth,  fashioned  it  into  a  gag  and 
thrust  it  between  the  reporter's  teeth. 

"I'm  really  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Granger," 
he  murmured  dryly  as  he  put  the  revolver  and  the: 


THE  ROOM  IN  THE  BASEMENT  271 


knife  into  his  pockets.  "If  you  hadn't  come  to  me" 
with  that  barefaced  hoax,  I  should  still  be  wearing  a 
chain  around  my  ankle.  Too  bad  I  can't  offer  you 
a  drink.  You  seem  to  need  one." 

With  elastic  step  he  walked  to  the  door.  There; 
he  pushed  a  button,  and  the  room  went  dark.  There 
was  a  glow  in  his  cheeks  and  a  tingle  in  his  veins  as  he 
stepped  out  in  the  hall,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 
Looking  up  and  down  the  silent  corridor,  he  saw  a 
stairway  at  the  farther  end,  and  hastened  in  that  di- 
rection. At  the  head  of  the  stairs  he  all  but  collided 
with  Doctor  Bimble. 

"Well,  Granger  ?" 

The  Phantom  thanked  his  lucky  star  that  the  lights 
in  the  hall  were  dim.  Under  the  circumstances,  it 
was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  for  Bimble; 
to  suppose  that  he  was  addressing  the  reporter.  He; 
knew  that  Granger  had  been  wearing  the  Phantom's 
clothes,  and  the  latter  was  supposed  to  be  chained 
securely  to  a  wall. 

"No  lucky  announced  the  Phantom,  simulating 
Granger's  manner  of  speech.  "I  gave  him  exactly  the 
line  of  talk  you  suggested,  but  he  spotted  the  trick 
right  off.   He  wouldn't  listen  to  me  at  all." 

Even  in  the  dusk  the  Phantom  saw  a  spiteful  looK 
creep  into  the  doctor's  face. 

"Doesn't  he  still  think  you  are  on  his  side?" 

"He  seems  to  have  his  suspicions,"  answered  the 
Phantom,  carefully  weighing  his  words,  "but  he  is 
keeping  them  to  himself.  I  tried  my  darndest  to 
flimflam  the  information  out  of  him,  but  it  was  no 
use.  He's  about  the  smoothest  article  I  ever  came- 
across." 

The  doctor  nodded  curtly  as  he  swung  around  ancl 
started  to  descend  the  stairs,  the  Phantom  following* 
"I'll  break  him  yet,"  muttered  Bimble  vindictively* 


272      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


"In  a  few  moments  he'll  hear  a  tune  that  he  won't 
like.  Miss  Hardwick  is  going  to  make  another  trip 
to  the  spook  chamber,  as  our  mulish  friend  so  aptly 
termed  it.  I  guess  he  will  come  across  with  the  in- 
formation when  he  discovers  that  we  mean  business." 

They  reached  the  floor  below.  As  they  passed 
a  light  in  the  hall,  the  Phantom  saw  a  look  of  venom- 
ous determination  in  the  doctor's  face,  and  he  knew 
that  a  terrible  ordeal  would  be  in  store  for  Helen  if 
Bimble  was  permitted  to  have  his  way.  The  anthro- 
pologist opened  a  door,  and  the  Phantom  glanced 
into  the  room  over  his  shoulder.  About  a  dozen  men, 
the  expressions  on  their  faces  ranging  all  the  way 
from  low  cunning  to  sullen  brutality,  sat  at  a  long 
table  playing  cards. 

"Jepson !"  called  the  doctor,  taking  a  bunch  of  keys 
from  his  pockets. 

A  tall,  raw-boned  individual  with  features  sugges- 
tive of  a  gorilla's  rose  from  the  table  and  approach- 
ing them,  with  dragging  gait. 

"I  want  you  and  Granger  to  bring  Miss  Hardwick 
here  immediately,"  directed  Bimble  handing  Jepson; 
one  of  the  keys. 

The  tall  man  nodded  and  slunk  away.  The  Phan- 
tom, keeping  in  the  shadows  as  much  as  possible,  fol- 
lowed him  down  two  flights  of  stairs.  Here  and 
there,  at  a  turn  in  the  halls  or  stairs,  they  encountered 
soft-footed,  wary-eyed  men  who  passed  them  in  si- 
lence. 

"The  whole  crowd  seems  to  be  about  to-night,"' 
observed  the  Phantom. 

"Sure,"  said  Jepson.  "The  big  chief  don't  like 
to  take  chances.  He  means  to  rush  a  bunch  of  us  to 
the  Phantom's  place  as  soon  as  he  finds  out  where  it 
is.    There  may  be  a  scrap  when  we  get  there." 

"Quite  likely."    The  Phantom  repressed  a  smile. 


THE  ROOM  IN  THE  BASEMENT  273 


There  was  a  fever  in  his  veins,  and  he  wished  Jepson 
would  walk  faster.  They  descended  into  the  base- 
ment, sparsely  lighted  by  a  small  bulb  suspended  over 
the  stairs,  and  Jepson  picked  his  way  carefully  over 
the  floor.  Finally  he  stopped  before  a  door,  inserted 
a  key  in  the  lock,  and  walked  in. 

The  room  was  dark,  but  a  quick  gasp,  resembling 
a  sudden  intake  of  breath,  told  the  Phantom  it  was 
occupied.  His  body  tingled  with  suppressed  excite- 
ment. Jepson  was  standing  in  the  doorway,  and  a 
light  scraping  sound  indicated  that  he  was  running  his 
hands  over  the  wall  in  search  of  a  switch. 

As  light  flooded  the  narrow  room  the  Phantom 
stifled  an  exclamation.  In  a  chair  at  the  wall  sat  a 
slender  figure,  rigidly  still  save  for  the  trembling  of 
the  hands  clasped  across  the  bosom.  Long  waves  of 
lustrous  hair  framed  a  face  white  as  alabaster,  and 
the  large  brown  eyes  were  staring  at  Jepson  with  an 
[expression  of  dread.  There  was  a  quiver  in  the  dis- 
tended orbs,  as  if  a  frightful  recollection  were  linger- 
ing in  their  depths. 

She  shrank  back  against  the  chair  as  Jepson  lum- 
bered toward  her.  For  a  moment  longer  she  re- 
mained motionless,  then  a  long-drawn  moan  sounded 
in  her  throat,  and  with  hands  thrust  out  she  sprang 
from  the  chair. 

"You  sha'n't  take  me  back  there!"  she  cried  in 
tones  edged  with  fury  and  terror.  "I  won't  go  back! 
I  won't!" 

"Easy  now,  lady!  No  use  kicking  up  a  fuss."  Jep- 
son roughly  seized  her  arm,  squeezed  it  until  she  ut- 
tered a  sharp  cry  of  pain,  and  started  dragging  her 
toward  the  door. 

Then,  of  a  sudden,  the  Phantom's  fist  shot  out. 
Hard  as  steel,  it  delivered  a  stinging,  crunching  blow 
between  Jepson's  eyes,  and  the  big  brute  dropped  to 


274      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


the  floor  like  a  dead  weight.  The  girl  stood  im- 
mobile, staring  at  the  twisted  shape  at  her  feet  as  if 
unable  to  understand  what  had  happened.  Then, 
very  slowly,  she  raised  her  eyes  until  they  met  the 
Phantom's. 

"You?"  She  spoke  lowly,  as  if  not  quite  recog- 
nizing him  at  first.  Dazedly  she  drew  her  hand 
across  her  forehead.  "Are  you  the  Gray  Phantom 
or  " 

"I  am  the  Gray  Phantom.  Don't  you  know  me — 
Helen?" 

She  gazed  at  him  long  and  searchingly.  A  soft 
gleam  penetrated  the  film  of  terror  in  her  eyes. 

"Yes,  you  are  the  Gray  Phantom."  The  words 
sounded  hushed  and  strained.  She  came  a  step  closer 
and  placed  her  cold  hand  in  his.  There  was  a  faint, 
tremulous  smile  on  her  lips.  "Can  you  forgive  me — 
for  doubting  you?" 

"One  little  whisper  from  your  lips  makes  every- 
thing right,"  he  murmured  softly,  gendy  drawing  her 
from  the  room  and  locking  the  door. 

"I  couldn't  help  it,"  she  whispered.  "Everything 
seemed  to  point  to  your  guilt." 

"It  did,"  admitted  the  Phantom,  "and  I  don't 
blame  you.  I  suppose  Granger  lied  to  me  when  he 
told  me  he  got  into  disgrace  with  the  Duke's  gang 
because  of  his  refusal  to  abduct  you.  He's  a  skillful 
mixer  of  truth  and  fiction.  What  happened  to  you? 
Who  kidnaped  you?" 

"One  of  Doctor  Bimble's  men,  I  suppose.  I  slip- 
ped out  of  the  laboratory  while  you  and  the  doctor 
were  reading  the  paper.  I  was  sick  at  heart.  What 
you  had  told  me  while  we  were  in  the  closet  expressed 
my  feelings.  It  seemed  as  though  an  idol  had  fallen 
off  its  pedestal  and  broken  to  bits,  like  ordinary  clay. 


THE  ROOM  IN  THE  BASEMENT  275 


Well,  I  had  almost  reached  the  front  door  when 
someone  sneaked  up  behind  me,  thrust  a  black  cloth 
down  over  my  head  and  carried  me  upstairs.  I  must 
have  been  chloroformed,  for  shortly  afterward  I  lost 
consciousness. 

"The  next  day  Granger  called  on  me  in  the  little 
room  where  they  were  keeping  me.  I  think  his  object 
was  to  learn  the  location  of  Sea-Glimpse.  I  was — 
well,  I  was  stubborn  and  wouldn't  tell  him.  I  re- 
ceived a  shock  the  moment  I  saw  him  and  noted  his 
striking  resemblance  to  you.  All  at  once  I  knew  he 
was  the  murderer.  It  came  to  me  in  a  flash,  and  of  a 
sudden  I  understood  the  meaning  of  Gage's  state- 
ment." 

"There  must  be  such  a  thing  as  feminine  intuition, 
after  all,"  was  the  Phantom's  comment.  "Of  course 
you  told  him  to  his  face  that  he  was  the  murderer?" 

"I  guess  I  did.  The  words  seemed  to  tumble  out 
of  themselves.  I  think  I  told  Bimble  the  same  thing 
that  evening.   He  seemed  greatly  alarmed." 

The  Phantom  started.  "Intuition  is  sometimes  a 
very  dangerous  faculty,"  he  murmured.  "It  is 
very  likely  to —  But  this  is  no  time  for  talking.  Jep- 
son  will  be  dead  to  the  world  for  some  little  time, 
but  the  house  is  bristling  with  gangsters.  I  must  get 
you  out  of  here  somehow." 

He  looked  quickly  about  the  dimly  lighted  base- 
ment. There  was  a  window  on  each  side,  but  both 
were  covered  by  shutters  and  iron  grilles,  and  the 
only  exit  seemed  to  be  the  stairs. 

"What  about  yourself?"  asked  the  girl. 

"Oh,"  with  a  low  laugh,  "I  have  a  task  that  yet 
remains  to  be  finished.    But  you  " 

Suddenly  a  little  gasp  slipped  from  the  girl's  lips, 
and  she  seized  his  arm  convulsively.   Her  gaze  was 


£76      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


rigid,  anH  the  Phantom  looking  in  the  same  'direction, 
saw  Doctor  Bimble  standing  in  the  stairs  with  a  lev- 
eled pistol  in  his  hand. 

"Don't  stir !"  was  the  anthropologist's  crisply  spo- 
ken warning.  "You  will  please  note,  my  dear  Phan- 
tom, that  I'm  not  aiming  at  you,  but  at  Miss  Hard- 
wick.  She'll  be  dead  the  moment  you  make  the  slight- 
est move !" 


CHAPTER  XXXI 


AT  BAY 

THE  Phantom  scarcely  breathed.  He  stood 
utterly  still  while  the  doctor  came  down  the 
remaining  steps  and  halted  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs.  The  pistol,  pointed  at  Helen  with  a  steadiness 
that  bespoke  a  deadly  aim,  inspired  him  with  a  sense 
of  awe  a  thousand  times  greater  than  if  it  had  been 
leveled  at  himself. 

The  girl's  hand  was  still  on  his  sleeve,  and,  without 
looking  direcdy  at  her,  he  knew  that  she  was  facing 
the  menacing  pistol  without  flinching.  Her  slight 
touch  on  his  arm  gave  him  a  feeling  of  tenderness 
and  strength.  Already  his  wits  were  at  work.  In  his 
hip  pocket  was  the  weapon  he  had  taken  from  Gran- 
ger, but  he  could  not  reach  for  it  without  jeopardiz- 
ing the  girl's  life. 

"Cruel  trick  you  played  on  Granger,"  observed  the 
doctor,  standing  a  dozen  feet  away.  "I  don't  know 
how  you  managed  it,  but  you  seem  to  have  a  special 
talent  for  such  performances.  Fortunately  one  of  my 
men  happened  to  enter  the  room  in  which  you  left 
the  poor  fellow,  and  he  saw  how  things  were.  Well, 
Phantom,  one  thing  is  sure,  you  have  played  your 
last  trick." 

The  Phantom  maintained  his  attitude  of  immo- 
bility, but  Bimble's  words  had  given  him  an  inward 
twinge.  As  far  as  he  could  see,  the  doctor  had  ap- 
praised the  situation  with  accuracy.    The  windows, 

277 


278      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


with  their  shutters  and  iron  bars,  seemed  impreg- 
nable. The  murky  walls  and  the  low  ceiling  gave: 
forth  an  impression  of  solidity  that  accentuated  his 
sense  of  bafflement.  The  way  to  the  stairs  was 
barred  by  Bimble  with  his  pistol,  and  the  rooms  and 
corridors  above  were  swarming  with  the  Duke's  men. 
And  meanwhile  the  Phantom  dared  not  bend  a 
muscle,  for  fear  of  causing  Helen  Hardwick's  death. 

"You  will  admit  that  you  are  very  neatly  cor- 
nered ?"  taunted  the  doctor. 

"It  would  seem  so,"  admitted  the  Phantom  dryly, 
"but  I  have  been  cornered  many  times  before. 
There's  nothing  very  original  in  the  situation." 

"No,  nothing  except  that  you  wriggled  out  of  the? 
others,  while  this  one  will  hold  you  till  I  am  through 
with  you.  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  the  part  of 
wisdom  to  submit  and  tell  me  what  I  want  to  know?" 

"Never!"  declared  the  Phantom  with  emphasis. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  better?"  whispered  Helen. 
"He'll  kill  us  both  unless  we  do." 

"It's  his  intention  to  kill  us,  anyway,"  the  Phan- 
tom whispered  back.  "The  only  reason  he  hasn't 
killed  us  already  is  that  he  hopes  to  persuade  us  to 
give  him  the  information  he  wants.  Afraid?" 

"Not  for  myself.   But  you  " 

"Then  step  behind  my  back  as  quickly  as  you  can."' 

The  girl  looked  up  at  him  with  an  expression  o£ 
uncertainty. 

"Hurry!"  whispered  the  Phantom.  "It's  our  only 
chance." 

She  hesitated  a  moment  longer;  then,  with  the  swift 
motion  of  a  startled  doe,  she  darted  aside  and  stood 
at  his  back.  The  blue  steel  of  the  pistol  barrel  flick- 
iered  for  an  instant  as  the  doctor  transferred  his  aim 
to  the  Phantom.  Evidently  the  sudden  movement 
bad  disconcerted  Bimble. 


AT  BAY 


279 


"A  fairly  clever  maneuver,"  he  acknowledged, 
"but  you  have  gained  nothing  by  it." 

"I  am  satisfied,"  declared  the  Phantom,  his  spirits 
rising  again.  "You  can't  reach  Miss  Hardwick  with 
a  bullet  without  first  perforating  me,  and  you  have  no 
intention  of  killing  me  until  you  have  learned  what 
you  want  to  know.    Eh,  Bimble?" 

The  doctor's  lips  twisted  into  an  ugly  sneer.  "We 
shall  see,"  he  muttered  irately.  "You  are  a  clever 
man,  Phantom,  but  your  cleverness  can't  help  you 
now." 

He  plucked  a  small  metallic  instrument  from  his 
vest  pocket  and  brought  it  to  his  lips.  Three  short, 
shrill  whistles  pierced  the  silence.  With  a  gratified 
grin  on  his  lips  the  doctor  restored  the  little  metal 
tube  to  his  pocket.  The  third  blast  had  no  sooner 
sounded  than  a  tumult  of  discordant  noises  came 
from  above.  Bimble  looked  gloatingly  at  the  Phan- 
tom as  the  sounds  drew  nearer.  A  man  ran  down 
the  stairs,  quickly  followed  by  a  second  and  a  third. 
Others  kept  arriving,  in  groups  of  three  or  more, 
until  the  Phantom  had  counted  twenty-four. 

Like  a  great  human  fan,  the  crowd  spread  out  in 
a  triangle  along  the  walls  and  about  the  foot  of  the 
stairs.  As  each  man  took  his  place  in  the  line,  the 
'Phantom  gave  him  a  quick  appraising  glance.  In 
their  faces  he  read  low  cunning,  brutish  instincts,  and 
stolid  obedience  to  orders,  but  the  keener  wit  and  sub- 
tler intellect  which  the  Phantom  had  always  de- 
manded of  his  men  were  lacking. 

He  read  each  face  as  if  it  were  an  open  page,  and 
(finally  his  gaze  rested  on  Doctor  Bimble.  The  an- 
thropologist was  a  craftier  man  by  far  than  his  sub- 
alterns, but  at  a  glance  the  Phantom's  keen  eye 
picked  out  the  weak  spot  in  his  moral  fiber.  Already 
a.  plan  was  forming  in  his  mind.   All  he  was  waiting 


280      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


rfor  was  a  favorable  combination  of  circumstances 
that  would  enable  him  to  act. 

The  pistol  in  the  doctor's  hand  was  still  pointing 
straight  at  the  Phantom's  chest.  Bimble's  expression 
was  a  repulsive  mixture  of  cruelty  and  smug  satisfac- 
tion. 

"I  trust  you  are  convinced  that  resistance  is  useless, 
my  dear  Phantom,"  he  declared  in  drawling  tones. 
"There  are  more  than  twenty  of  us,  as  you  see." 

"Excellent!"  remarked  the  Phantom.  "I  am  glad 
to  see  so  many  of  you  here." 

"Glad?"  The  doctor  seemed  a  little  dumfounded. 
"Why,  pray?" 

"Because  having  you  all  here  in  this  room  will 
make  my  task  much  easier." 

"Your  task?" 

The  Phantom  laughed  easily.  "You  must  surely 
know  that  it  is  my  intention  to  hand  you  all  over  to 
the  police?" 

Bimble  stared.  Twice  he  opened  his  mouth,  but 
no  words  came.  The  Phantom's  cool  audacity 
seemed  to  have  silenced  his  tongue. 

"Are  you  crazy?"  he  asked  at  length. 

"Never  was  saner  in  my  life.  It  is  my  firm  inten- 
tion to  turn  every  one  of  you  over  to  the  police. 
That's  why  I  am  glad  to  see  so  many  of  you  gathered 
in  one  room." 

He  smiled  as  he  spoke,  but  his  heart  was  not  in  his 
smile.  He  was  turning  an  audacious  plan  over  in  his 
mind,  but  he  was  not  at  all  sure  that  he  would  have 
a  chance  to  put  it  into  execution.  At  his  back  he 
heard  Helen's  quick,  nervous  intakes  of  breath,  and 
he  turned  his  head  slightly. 

"The  Gray  Phantom's  star  has  never  yet  set,"  he 
whispered. 

A  low,  quavering  laugh  was  the  girl's  response. 


AT  BAY 


281 


Bimble  was  still  staring  at  him  as  if  doubting  his 
sanity.  "You  think  you  are  going  to  turn  us  over  to 
the  police !"  he  exclaimed.  uHa,  ha  1  Still  in  a  jocu- 
lar mood,  I  see.  It  won  t  last  long.  For  the  last  time 
I  ask  if  you  will  accept  my  terms." 

The  Phantom  sent  him  a  contemptuous  glance. 
"One  doesn't  make  terms  with  sneaking  hyenas  like 
you,"  he  declared. 

"Very  well."  Bimble  ran  his  eye  over  the  triangle 
of  faces,  and  his  gaze  fell  on  a  stout,  tough-limbed 
man  with  a  reddish  face. 

"Wilkes,"  he  directed,  "pull  that  devoted  pair 
apart  and  carry  the  young  lady  to  the  room  upstairs 
where  the  skeletons  are.  Be  careful  not  to  get  in 
front  of  my  pistol." 

The  stout  man  stepped  out  of  the  line.  A  coarse 
grin  wreathed  his  face  as  he  approached  the  Phantom 
and  the  girl  from  the  side. 

"Get  back!"  whispered  the  Phantom  to  Helen. 
Slowly,  step  by  step,  the  two  moved  backward  until 
Helen  stood  against  the  wall.  Then  the  Phantom, 
looking  straight  into  the  muzzle  of  Bimble's  pistol, 
reached  back  and  wound  his  arms  around  the  girl's 
slender  waist. 

"Pull  us  apart  if  you  can,"  he  told  Wilkes  as  he 
interlocked  his  fingers  behind  Helen's  back. 

The  stout  man  stopped  and  scratched  his  head,  as 
if  confronting  a  problem  too  complex  for  his  wits  to 
solve.  A  look  of  diffidence  crossed  Bimble's  face  as 
he  noticed  that  the  Phantom  had  once  more  balked 
him. 

"Knock  him  down  if  you  can't  part  them  any  other 
way,"  he  commanded  wrathfully.  "Tap  him  on  the 
head  with  something." 

Chuckling,  Wilkes  drew  a  long  revolver  from  his 
pocket,  gripping  it  tightly  by  the  barrel  as  he  cau- 


282      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


tiously  approached  the  Phantom  from  the  side.  Helen 
gasped. 

"Keep  cool!"  whispered  the  Phantom.  "And 
whatever  happens,  stay  right  at  my  back." 

He  watched  Bimble' s  pistol  out  of  one  eye,  while 
with  the  other  he  followed  Wilkes'  movements.  For 
an  instant,  as  Wilkes  swung  the  heavy  weapon  over 
his  shoulder,  he  tensed  his  muscles  for  action.  Then, 
with  a  motion  so  swift  that  the  eyes  of  the  onlookers 
could  scarcely  register  it,  his  arm  darted  out  and 
gripped  the  other's  wrist  just  as  the  revolver  was 
about  to  crash  down  on  the  Phantom's  head. 

Once  more  his  arm  shot  out  and  with  a  quick  and 
powerful  wrench  he  swung  Wilkes  directly  in  front 
of  him,  coiling  the  fingers  of  one  hand  around  the 
man's  neck  and  windpipe.  In  almost  the  same  instant 
he  whipped  out  his  pistol  and,  using  the  bulky  figure 
of  Wilkes  as  a  shield,  took  aim  and  fired. 

Bimble  uttered  a  sharp  yell  of  pain.  The  pistol 
'dropped  from  his  fingers,  and  he  looked  dazedly  at 
his  blood-spattered  hand. 

"Fairly  good  shot!"  ejaculated  the  Phantom  with 
a  chuckle.  At  his  back  was  Helen,  trembling  with 
excitement,  and  in  front  of  him  stood  Wilkes,  splut- 
tering and  gasping  for  breath  as  a  result  of  the  Phan- 
tom's clutch  at  his  throat. 

The  whole  episode  had  been  enacted  within  the 
space  of  a  few  seconds.  The  Phantom  had  acted  so 
swifdy  and  taken  them  all  so  completely  by  surprise 
that  on  one  had  had  time  to  interfere.  Now,  before 
the  men  huddled  against  the  wall  and  in  front  of  the 
stairs  could  gather  their  wits,  a  powerful  shove  sent 
Wilkes  sprawling  headlong  to  the  floor,  and  in  an- 
other moment  the  Phantom  had  seized  Helen's  hand 
and  made  a  rush  for  Bimble. 


AT  BAY 


283 


He  snatched  up  the  pistol  the  doctor  had  dropped 
as  the  bullet  struck  his  wrist,  and  handed  it  to  Helen. 

"Shoot  the  first  man  who  makes  a  move,"  he  di- 
rected, "and  shoot  to  kill!" 

Helen  looked  into  his  cool,  determined  eyes,  flash- 
ing with  the  ecstasy  of  combat.  With  a  faint  auda- 
cious smile  on  her  lips,  she  drew  herself  up  and  han- 
dling the  weapon  with  the  sure  touch  of  an  expert, 
faced  the  staring  and  muttering  crowd.  For  a  few 
moments  the  men  stood  immobile,  as  if  the  swift  suc- 
cession of  events  had  cast  a  numbing  spell  over  their 
bodies  and  minds;  then,  with  ominous  grumblings  and 
curses,  a  few  of  the  more  daring  ones  started  for- 
ward. 

In  the  meantime  the  Phantom  had  jabbed  his  pis- 
tol against  Bimble's  body  with  a  force  that  brought  a 
sickly  groan  from  the  doctor's  lips.  He  glanced  aside 
out  of  the  corner  of  an  eye  as  a  crack  and  a  gleam  of 
fire  issued  from  Helen's  weapon.  A  bullet  in  the 
fleshy  part  of  the  hip  had  checked  a  furtive  movement 
on  the  part  of  one  of  the  gang,  and  instantly  the 
others,  impressed  by  the  girl's  exhibition  of  marks- 
manship, fell  back. 

The  Phantom  nodded  approvingly.  His  glittering 
eyes  and  a  smile  on  his  lips  gave  no  hint  of  what  he 
felt. 

"Let  me  warn  you  that  Miss  Hardwick  is  an  ex- 
pert," he  remarked  coolly.  "She  once  got  a  perfect 
bull's-eye  at  six  hundred  yards." 

The  men  looked  at  the  girl,  then  at  their  ashen- 
faced  and  quavering  leader.  The  Phantom  pushed 
the  pistol  a  little  harder  against  the  doctor's  body. 

"If  anyone  raises  a  hand  against  Miss  Hardwick, 
you  die  instantly,"  he  declared  sharply.  "I  could  kill 
you  with  no  more  compunction  than  if  I  were  killing 
a  rat." 


284      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


The  (doctor  gulp  eel,  and  for  the  moment  all  his 
cunning  seemed  to  have  deserted  him. 

"Anyone  who  cares  to  fire  a  bullet  at  me  is  wel- 
come to  do  so,"  the  Phantom  went  on,  speaking  in 
quick  accents  that  sounded  like  the  clinking  of  metal. 
"My  index  finger,  you  will  notice,  is  on  the  trigger. 
The  slightest  pressure  will  send  a  chunk  of  lead  into 
your  vitals.  If  I  die,  the  muscular  contraction  that 
always  accompanies  sudden  and  violent  death  would 
be  very  likely  to  snap  the  trigger.  You  get  the  idea, 
I  hope?" 

It  was  evident  that  Bimble  did.  His  absurdly  thin 
legs  wabbled  as  if  he  were  in  the  grip  of  a  great  terror 
and  the  spasmodic  twitching  of  his  fingers  indicated 
that  this  was  a  situation  against  which  his  habitual 
craftiness  was  helpless. 

Helen  stood  at  the  Phantom's  side,  sweeping  the 
crowd  with  cool,  alert  eyes,  and  holding  the  pistol  in 
readiness  for  instant  action.  Her  slim  figure  was 
erect,  and  there  was  a  proud  tilt  to  her  head,  as  if 
the  contagion  of  the  Phantom's  fighting  spirit  had 
gripped  her.  Again  there  were  surly  mutterings 
among  the  men,  but  with  rare  exceptions  they  were 
of  the  type  that  is  impotent  without  a  leader  to  urge 
them  on. 

Not  a  word  came  from  Bimble's  lips,  but  there  was 
a  look  in  his  eye  which  told  that  the  tentacles  of  his 
mind  were  reaching  for  a  solution  of  the  difficulty. 
The  Phantom,  keeping  one  eye  on  the  doctor  and  the 
other  on  the  crowd,  detected  a  stealthy  movement  in 
the  rear  of  the  group.  Someone  had  dropped  to  his 
knees  and  was  crawling  toward  a  huge  box. 

Instantly  the  Phantom  saw  the  meaning  of  the 
stealthy  movement.  For  a  moment,  as  the  crawling 
figure  appeared  around  the  edge  of  the  group,  he 
turned  his  pistol  from  the  doctor,  took  a  quick  aim, 


AT  BAY 


pressed  the  trigger,  an'd  again  thrust  the  muzzle  of 
his  weapon  against  Bimble's  diaphragm. 

A  cry  told  that  the  bullet  had  found  its  mark.  As 
the  smoke  drifted  toward  the  ceiling,  the  man  rose 
to  his  feet  with  a  look  of  distress  in  his  face,  caressing 
a  portion  of  his  arm  as  he  slunk  away  toward  the 
rear.  A  few  of  the  others,  wTho  had  sought  to  take; 
advantage  of  the  Phantom's  temporary  abstraction, 
!f  ell  back  to  their  places. 

The  Phantom  drew  a  long  breath  as  he  realized 
how  narrowly  Helen  and  himself  had  escaped  disas- 
ter. They  had  the  advantage  for  the  present,  but  the 
slightest  faltering  might  easily  reverse  the  situation 
and  release  the  pent-up  savagery  of  their  foes. 

"Bimble,"  he  remarked,  "it  would  be  extremely 
unfortunate  for  you  if  any  of  your  men  should  get 
reckless.  I  see  some  of  them  are  impatient.  If  any- 
thing happens  to  Miss  Hardwick  or  me,  you  will  be 
a  dead  man.  Hadn't  you  better  tell  your  friends  to 
throw  down  their  guns?" 

The  doctor  glanced  uneasily  at  his  men.  His  looks 
told  plainly  that  the  Phantom  had  read  him  accu- 
rately, that  there  was  nothing  he  valued  quite  so 
highly  as  he  did  his  life,  and  that  his  swagger  and 
bland  assurance  would  wilt  the  moment  he  faced  a 
personal  danger.  There  was  venon  in  his  eyes,  and 
his  pale,  distorted  features  bespoke  impotent  rage. 

"Drop  your  guns,"  he  commanded  after  another 
despairing  look  about  the  basement. 

The  men  regarded  him  diffidently  and  'did  not 
move.  Their  faces  showed  that  they  were  torn 
between  the  conflicting  impulses  of  self-preservation 
and  an  ingrained  habit  of  obedience. 

"You're  first."  The  Phantom  pointed  a  finger  at 
a  tall,  barrel-chested  man  at  the  end  of  the  line* 
"Step  forward  and  empty  your  pockets." 


286      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


The  Phantom  was  in  a  state  of  high  tension.  He 
was  exercising  a  mastery  of  mind  over  the  situation, 
but  all  might  yet  be  lost  if  the  man  should  refuse  to 
obey  and  set  the  others  an  example  of  resistance. 

"Miss  Hardwick,"  he  said  quickly,  realizing  that 
each  moment  of  delay  might  cost  them  their  lives, 
"you  will  count  five.  If  our  friend  at  the  end  of  the 
line  has  not  emptied  his  pockets  when  you  are 
through,  shoot  to  kill." 

The  girl  signified  with  a  slight  nod  that  she  under- 
stood. As  she  began  to  count,  her  pistol  was  pointing 
straight  at  the  man  the  Phantom  had  indicated.  The 
fellow's  sullen  obstinacy  yielded  gradually  to  an  over- 
powering respect  for  Helen's  marksmanship,  of 
which  he  had  already  witnessed  an  exhibition.  Just 
before  she  reached  "five,"  he  lumbered  forward  and 
turned  the  lining  of  his  pockets  inside  out.  A  knife, 
an  automatic,  and  several  other  implements  clattered 
to  the  floor. 

"Now  get  back  in  the  corner,"  commanded  the 
Phantom  pointing.  He  thrilled  at  the  thought  that 
the  crisis  was  past  and  the  victory  almost  won. 

The  second  man  hesitated  only  for  an  instant  be- 
fore he  followed  the  example  of  the  first.  After 
that  the  process  of  disarming  the  gang  went  on  swiftly 
and  without  interruptions.  Man  after  man  stepped 
out  of  the  line,  emptied  his  pockets,  and  joined  the 
others  in  the  corner.  When  the  last  man  had 
divested  himself  of  his  belongings  there  was  a  small 
pile  of  oddly  assorted  articles  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor. 

The  Phantom  felt  a  little  dazed,  now  that  the 
tremendous  tension  was  over.  At  last  he  lowered  the 
pistol  and  turned  to  the  girl.   Her  face  was  pale  and 


AT  BAY 


287 


a  little  haggard  but  a  smile  of  triumph  hovered 
about  her  lips. 

"You're  the  grandest  little  woman  I  ever  knew," 
he  declared  feelingly. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  confessed  a  little  wearily. 
"I  don't  think  I  could  have  stood  it  if  you  hadn't  been 
so  close  to  me.  I  felt  as  though  you  were  holding  me 
under  a  spell  all  the  time." 

The  Phantom  laughed.  "Bimble,  you  have  seen 
how  one  man,  with  the  assistance  of  a  plucky  little 
woman,  has  vanquished  a  gang  of  twenty-five  cut- 
throats and  ruffians.  The  yellow  streak  in  you  made 
it  fairly  easy.  I  should  like  to  see  the  Duke's  face 
when  he  hears  about  this." 

The  doctor  swallowed  hard.  His  putty-hued  face 
reflected  the  depths  of  mental  agony. 

"What — what  are  you  going  to  do  with  us?"  he 
inquired  weakly. 

"Precisely  what  I  said  I  would  do — hand  you  over 
to  the  police." 

"Not  that !"  The  doctor  looked  as  though  he  had 
received  a  blow.  "Listen!  Down  below,  in  the  cel- 
lar, are  several  million  dollars'  worth  of  valuables. 
You  can  have  it  all  if  you  will  let  us  go." 

"You're  a  rather  poor  sort,  Bimble,"  said  the 
Phantom  contemptuously.  "There  isn't  gold  enough 
in  the  world  to  buy  your  freedom.  To  see  you  get 
your  just  deserts  is  worth  more  to  me  than  all  the 
millions  the  Duke  and  his  gang  ever  stole." 

The  doctor  staggered  back  against  the  wall,  ut- 
terly dejected.  Of  a  sudden  the  Phantom's  expres- 
sion of  elation  faded  out  and  a  worried  look  took 
its  place.  Where  was  Granger?  The  reporter  had 
not  been  among  those  who  had  answered  the  doctor's 
summons,  and  the  Phantom  had  seen  nothing  of  him 


288      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


since  he  left  him  chained  to  the  wall  in  one  of  the 
upper  rooms.  Without  doubt  he  had  been  released, 
Ifor  Bimble  had  said  that  a  member  of  the  gang  had 
[entered  the  room  and  found  him  shortly  after  the 
(Phantom  had  started  for  the  basement.  His  absence 
was  somewhat  disturbing,  for  the  Phantom's  task 
would  not  be  finished  until  Granger  had  been  caught. 

Admonishing  Miss  Hardwick  to  keep  an  eye  on 
the  gang,  he  walked  toward  the  farther  wall.  Irt 
the  corner  was  a  door  which  he  had  not  seen  before. 
It  was  locked,  but  he  guessed  that  it  led  to  the  cellar 
in  which  the  doctor  kept  the  gang's  treasures,  and  he 
noted  that  it  was  of  hard  and  solid  material  and 
would  resist  almost  any  amount  of  pressure. 

"Doctor,"  he  said,  walking  back  to  where  Bimble 
stood,  "I'll  trouble  you  for  your  bunch  of  keys." 

With  an  air  of  a  broken  and  defeated  man,  Bimble 
complied,  and  the  Phantom  made  sure  that  one  of 
the  keys  fitted  the  lock  on  the  door  leading  to  the 
cellar.  Keeping  one  eye  on  the  gang,  he  gathered 
the  weapons  they  had  discarded  and  placed  them  on 
the  cellar  stairs.  Then  he  carefully  locked  the  door 
and  put  the  keys  in  his  pocket.  Motioning  Helen 
to  precede  him,  he  backed  up  the  stairs,  covering  the 
huddled  and  dejected  group  with  his  pistol  till  he 
reached  the  top.  Here  was  another  door,  almost  as 
substantial  as  the  one  communicating  with  the  cellar. 
They  stepped  through,  and  the  Phantom  closed  it 
and  turned  a  key  in  the  lock. 

"Our  precious  friends  are  trapped,"  he  remarked 
with  a  chuckle.  "I'll  wager  they  won't  get  out  of 
that  basement  till  the  police  'drag  them  out.  Now 
we  must  find  Granger." 

Passing  swiftly  down  the  hall,  they  opened  one 
rdoor  after  another,  glancing  quickly  into  each  room 


AT  BAY 


289 


before  proceeding  to  the  next.  Finally,  on  the  floor 
above,  they  reached  a  door  through  which  faint 
sounds  came.  For  an  instant  the  Phantom  listened, 
then  jerked  the  door  open  and  entered.  Taking  in 
the  scene  at  a  glance,  he  drew  his  pistol. 
"Hands  up,  Granger  I"  he  commanded. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 


THE  OUTLAW 

THE  reporter's  flushed  face  and  the  bottle  at  his 
elbow  showed  that  he  had  been  drinking.  As 
the  Phantom's  sharp  command  rang  out,  his 
nervous  fingers  dropped  the  revolver  which  he  had 
been  pointing  at  a  lanky,  dull-faced  figure  standing 
against  the  wall. 

"Culligore!"  exclaimed  the  Phantom,  "How  did 
"you  get  here?" 

The  lieutenant  smiled.  "Oh,  I've  been  in  this 
house  for  some  little  time — ever  since  that  con- 
founded "doc"  shot  me  in  the  leg.  He  put  me  to  bed 
and  tied  some  ropes  around  me.  How  I  got  loose 
is  a  long  story.  I  guess  the  "doc"  would  have  taken  a 
little  more  pains  with  the  ropes  if  he  had  known  that 
the  wound  in  my  leg  wasn't  so  bad  as  I  let  on  it  was. 
I  was  strolling  around  a  bit  and  finally  I  bumped  into 
our  friend  Granger  here.  He's  a  real  hospitable 
guy.  Handed  me  a  drink  with  one  hand  and  flashed 
a  gat  on  me  with  the  other." 

Granger,  blinking  his  heavy  eyes  and  staring 
blankly  at  the  two  intruders,  leaned  back  against  his 
chair.  Evidently  the  weapon  in  the  Phantom's  hand 
convinced  him  that  the  game  was  up,  for  he  made 
no  move  to  recover  the  pistol  he  had  dropped. 

"He  felt  so  sure  I  wouldn't  get  away  from  him 
alive  that  he  told  me  the  whole  story,"  Culligore 
went  on.    "Of  course,  I  had  pieced  together  most 

290 


THE  OUTLAW 


291 


of  it  already  from  the  scraps  of  fact  I  had.  I've  hacl 
my  suspicions  about  Granger  ever  since  the  depart- 
ment turned  him  loose.  I  thought  that  was  a  big 
mistake,  but  I  didn't  have  any  evidence  until  just  the 
other  day.  Then  I  searched  his  room,  and  what  do 
you  suppose  I  found?" 

" What?"  asked  the  Phantom  and  Helen  in  unison. 

Culligore  laughed  softly.  "It's  queer  how  clever 
rascals  like  Granger  always  make  some  childish 
blunder.  He  didn't  have  sense  enough  to  throw 
away  the  Maltese  cross — that  bit  of  phony  jade  that 
the  murderer  took  from  Gage's  desk — but  hid  it  in 
the  false  bottom  of  his  trunk.  Well,  I  guess  that 
alone  will  give  him  a  start  toward  the  electric  chair, 
though  it  isn't  the  only  piece  of  evidence  I  have 
against  him." 

uThen,  Culligore,"  asked  the  Phantom,  "I  sup- 
pose you're  convinced  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
murders?" 

The  lieutenant  grinned.  "Well,  you  sized  me  up 
about  right  while  we  were  stalling  each  other  in  the 
basement.  From  the  first  I  didn't  want  to  believe 
you  were  mixed  up  in  the  dirty  deal.  I  had  a  sort 
of  bet  with  myself  that  the  Gray  Phantom  would 
always  play  the  game  according  to  the  code.  Any- 
how, it  wasn't  long  before  I  began  to  suspect  that 
the  whole  thing  was  a  frame-up.  Granger  has  just 
told  me  all  about  it.  Seemed  proud  of  his  achieve- 
ment. The  Duke  had  mapped  out  a  nifty  plan  for 
Bimble  to  work  on.  None  of  the  flossy  details  were 
omitted.  Gage  was  to  be  murdered  and  you  were 
to  be  the  goat.  If  possible,  the  man  put  on  the  job 
was  to  be  someone  resembling  you,  so  that  if  he 
were  seen  on  or  near  the  scene  of  the  crime  the  evi- 
dence against  the  Gray  Phantom  would  be  strength- 
ened. 


292      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


"I  guess  you  know  what  a  thoroughgoing  bunch 
the  Duke's  men  are.  They  combed  the  country  till 
they  found  a  man  looking  like  you.  Granger  seemed 
to  fit  the  specifications,  and  they  offered  him  a  big 
bunch  of  money  if  he  would  do  their  dirty  work. 
Granger  tells  me  he  has  always  had  his  eye  on  the 
main  chance,  that  he  was  sick  and  tired  of  the  news- 
paper grind,  and  was  ready  to  do  almost  anything  to 
get  out  of  it.  I  suppose  his  conscience  troubled  him 
a  bit,  but  the  Duke's  gang  gave  him  all  the  whisky 
he  wanted,  for  they  knew  he  had  the  knack  of  keep- 
ing his  mouth  shut  even  when  he  was  drunk,  and 
liquor  is  a  pretty  good  antidote  for  a  troublesome 
conscience. 

"The  threatening  letter  was  forged,  of  course. 
The  job  was  done  by  one  of  the  cleverest  forgers  irt 
the  world,  a  member  of  the  Duke's  organization. 
After  the  murder  " 

"Not  quite  so  fast,"  interrupted  the  Phantom. 
"How  did  Granger  get  into  Gage's  bedroom?" 

"Through  the  tunnel  connecting  with  Bimble's  resi- 
dence." 

The  Phantom  looked  puzzled.  "But  I  satisfied 
myself  that  the  revolving  frame  could  not  be  ma- 
nipulated from  the  outside." 

"It  wasn't,"  said  Culligore.  "Gage  himself  ad- 
mitted his  murderer.  It  wasn't  the  first  time  that  he 
had  received  a  visit  from  one  of  the  gang  that  way, 
and  he  did  not  know  that  the  organization  had  con- 
demned him  to  death.  So  when  Granger  gave  the 
customary  signal,  Gage  thought  somebody  who  didn't 
care  to  be  seen  was  bringing  him  an  important  mes- 
sage." 

"I  might  have  guessed  it,"  murmured  the  Phan- 
tom.   "Evidently  I  was  not  cut  out  for  a  detective. 


THE  OUTLAW 


293 


Granger,  of  course,  made  his  escape  through  the 
tunnel  after  committing  the  murder ?" 

"He  did,  and  that's  what  made  the  crime  look  so 
mysterious.  It  was  part  of  the  plan,  for  it  convinced 
everybody  that  no  one  but  the  Phantom  could  have 
committed  it.  But  Granger  had  no  sooner  com- 
mitted the  murder  than  he  began  to  be  nervous. 
Somehow  he  got  it  into  his  head  that  the  housekeeper 
was  wise  to  him.  Maybe  she  was;  we  will  never 
know  that  for  sure,  though  I  have  a  private  hunch 
that  Mrs.  Trippe  had  guessed  the  truth.  Anyhow, 
Granger  decided  that  he  wouldn't  be  safe  unless  the 
housekeeper  was  put  out  of  the  way.  He  locked 
her  up  in  the  bedroom;  then  went  out  for  a  drink. 
He  was  bent  on  murder,  and  he  needed  a  bracer  for 
his  nerves.    When  he  came  back  " 

"In  the  meantime,"  interrupted  the  Phantom, 
"Mrs.  Trippe  tried  to  escape  by  way  of  the  revolving 
window  frame.  Probably  she  knew  there  was  a  hid- 
den exit  somewhere  in  the  room.  At  any  rate,  she 
had  discovered  how  to  open  it  just  before  Granger 
returned.  I  was  in  the  aperture  in  the  wall  and  saw 
the  murderer's  hand  as  he  drove  the  knife  into  her 
body.  Granger  either  knew  or  guessed  that  I  was 
there.  He  did  not  see  me,  but  he  heard  the  house- 
keeper addressing  someone  just  before  the  blow  was 
struck,  and  he  probably  surmised  who  it  was.  To 
make  sure  I  wouldn't  get  him  into  trouble,  he  ran 
around  to  the  Bimble  residence  and  blocked  the  other 
end  of  the  tunnel.  But  there  is  one  thing  I  don't 
understand.  How  did  it  come  about  that  Granger 
was  suspected  of  treachery?" 

"You  have  just  told  us  that  he  tried  to  kill  you," 
said  Culligore.  "Well,  that  was  the  reason.  The 
doc  had  given  strict  orders  that  you  were  to  be  taken 
alive  and  were  not  to  be  killed  under  any  circum- 


294      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


stances.  Granger  violated  those  orders  when  he 
tried  to  smother  you  to  death  in  the  tunnel.  Shortly 
after  that  he  disappeared,  and  that  made  it  look  all 
the  worse  for  him.  The  "doc"  didn't  know  that  you 
had  kidnaped  him.  All  he  knew  was  that  Granger 
had  vamoosed,  and  he  thought  he  was  doing  the 
gang  dirt  and  pulling  some  kind  of  treacherous  stuff." 

"That  explains  the  note  Dan  the  Dope  handed 
me,"  observed  the  Phantom.  "Everything  is  clear 
except  Pinto's  part  in  the  affair.  His  statement 
cleared  up  a  good  many  things,  but  not  all.  For 
instance,  he  was  startled  when  I  showed  him  the 
ducal  coronet.  Tell  me,"  and  the  Phantom  lowered 
his  voice  as  a  new  thought  occurred  to  him,  "is,  or 
was,  Pinto  a  member  of  the  Duke's  crowd?" 

"Not  exactly."  Culligore  spoke  with  a  hesitant 
drawl.  "Til  tell  you  something  if  you  promise  to  let 
it  go  in  one  ear  and  out  the  other.  For  some  time 
I've  had  a  private  tip  to  the  effect  that  the  Duke's 
outfit  wanted  someone  on  the  inside  of  the  police  de- 
partment. They  made  Pinto  a  pretty  attractive 
offer,  and  Pinto  nibbled  at  the  bait.  He  might  have 
swallowed  it  if  the  Gage  murder  hadn't  happened 
along." 

uNo  wonder  he  acted  so  shaky,"  murmured  the 
Phantom.  "Well,  I  am  glad  the  ugly  mess  has  been 
disposed  of.  "The  wily  old  Peng  Yuen  must  have 
had  an  inkling  of  the  truth  when  he  quoted  something 
to  me  from  one  of  the  Chinese  philosophers.  I 
didn't  get  his  meaning  then,  but  I  do  now.  Any- 
way," with  a  soft  laugh,  "the  bloodstain  has  been 
wrashed  from  the  Gray  Phantom's  name.  There  will 
never  " 

Granger,  who  had  been  leaning  back  against  his 
chair  as  if  in  a  drunken  stupor,  made  a  sudden  move- 
ment.   The  Phantom  was  about  to  interfere,  but  the 


THE  OUTLAW 


295 


reporter  was  only  pouring  himself  a  drink  from  the 
bottle.    He  rose  unsteadily  and  held  the  glass  aloft. 

"It  was  fun  while  it  lasted,"  he  declared  thickly. 
"I'm  going  to  have  one  more  drink — just  one.  Here 
goes  V 

He  gulped  down  the  contents  of  the  glass,  swayed 
for  an  instant  and  regarded  the  others  with  an  odd 
{expression.  Then,  before  either  of  them  could  in- 
terfere, he  picked  up  the  pistol  he  had  dropped  upon 
the  Phantom's  entrance. 

A  crack  sounded.  Helen  uttered  a  sharp  cry,  and 
Culligore  limped  toward  the  reporter's  chair  just  as 
Granger  went  staggering  to  the  floor. 

"Killed  himself!"  muttered  the  lieutenant.  "Shot 
himself  through  the  heart.  Well,  that's  one  way  of 
Idodging  the  electric  chair." 

Helen  shuddered  convulsively  and  the  Phantom 
led  her  gently  toward  the  door.  He  drew  the  doc- 
tor's keys  from  his  pockets  and  tossed  them  to  Cul- 
ligore. 

"1  forgot  to  tell  you,"  he  remarked  in  casual  tones, 
"that  Bimble  and  his  gang  are  locked  up  in  the  base- 
ment. Miss  Hardwick  and  I  rounded  them  up  and 
took  their  guns  away  from  them  while  you  and  Gran- 
ger were  discussing  the  crime.  I  understand,  too, 
that  there's  a  large  amount  of  swag  salted  in  the 
cellar.  It  will  be  quite  an  important  catch  for  you, 
Culligore,  and  ought  to  help  toward  promotion  for 
you." 

The  lieutenant  stared. 

"Well,  I'll  be  hanged!"  he  muttered  at  last. 

The  Phantom  smiled.  "I  believe  there  are  several 
outstanding  charges  against  myself,"  he  observed. 
"To  arrest  the  Gray  Phantom  would  be  almost  as 
big  an  achievement  as  the  rounding  up  of  the  Duke's 
gang." 


S96      THE  GRAY  PHANTOM'S  RETURN 


Culligore  seemed  to  hesitate.  "Well,"  with  a 
broad  grin,  "I  suppose  I  ought  to  pinch  you,  but  my 
leg  still  hurts  a  bit  and  you  can  run  a  lot  faster  than' 
I  can.  Anyhow,  I'll  get  plenty  of  credit  as  it  is. 
You  two  might  as  well  go  away.  I'll  wait  ten 
minutes  before  I  telephone  headquarters." 

"Thanks,  Culligore." 

He  gripped  the  lieutenant's  hand  and  held  it  while; 
each  man  looked  the  other  in  the  eye.  Then  he 
turned  and  led  Helen  from  the  room.  In  a  little 
while  they  were  out  on  the  street,  and  her  face  bright- 
ened as  the  morning  breeze  fanned  it.  The  Phantom 
hailed  a  passing  taxicab. 

For  a  time  they  sat  silent,  and  there  was  a  touch 
of  reverence  in  the  Phantom's  attitude  as  he  gazed 
at  the  girl. 

"Helen!"  he  whispered. 

The  soft  brown  eyes  looked  into  his  own. 

"Gray  Phantom!"  she  murmured. 

He  found  her  hand  and  held  it.  "It  was  a  great 
adventure — the  greatest  of  my  life.  Who  would 
ever  have  dreamed  that  the  Gray  Phantom  would 
go  to  such  extremes  to  clear  himself  in  the  eyes  of 
a  girl?" 

She  looked  up  again,  and  there  was  a  warm,  misty 
radiance  in  her  eyes. 

"Did  my  opinion  of  you  really  matter  as  much  as 
that?" 

"Why,  of  course;  it  meant  everything  to  me.  And 
Helen  " 

There  was  a  choking  sensation  in  his  throat.  He; 
turned  his  head  and  looked  out  through  the  window 
at  a  quiet  street  lined  with  brownstone  fronts.  He 
laughed  sadly. 

"I  forgot  for  a  moment  that  I  am  still  a  hunted 
man.    I  am  still  an  outlaw,  and  all  officers  are  not 


THE  OUTLAW 


297 


as  generous  as  Culligore.  My  past  is  hanging  over 
me  like  a  great  black  cloud.  But  perhaps  some 
:day  " 

She  smiled  as  he  broke  off.  "Perhaps  some  day," 
she  murmured,  "the  cloud  will  roll  away." 

His  fingers  tightened  convulsively  about  her  hand; 
then  he  opened  the  door  and  called  to  the  chauffeur. 
The  cab  swerved  up  to  the  curb  and  stopped. 

"Good-by,  Helen." 

Her  lips  trembled  and  for  a  moment  she  could  not 
speak. 

"Au  revoir — Gray  Phantom!" 

He  drew  a  long,  deep  breath  as  the  cab  glided 
away.  He  watched  it  till  it  was  out  of  sight.  There 
was  a  smile  on  his  lips  and  his  eyes  held  a  tender 
light. 

"Farewell,  Brown  Eyes,"  he  said,  half  aloud. 
"Wonder  if  we  shall  meet  again,  and  if — "  He  did 
not  finish  the  thought,  but  smiled  whimsically.  "I 
must  hurry  back  and  see  what  I  can  do  with  my  gray 
orchid." 

Then  he  swung  down  a  side  street  and  walked 
briskly  away,  looking  furtively  to  right  and  left  with 
the  habitual  caution  of  hunted  men. 


THE  END 


A  Gripping  Story  of  Adventure 
the  Santa  Fe  Trail  in  the 
Early  Forties. 

Bring  Me  His  Ear 


By  CLARENCE  E.  MULFOR 


"Bring  Me  His  Ears"  is  a  real  Wes 
tern  thriller,  dating  back  to  1840. 

Tom  Boyd,  the  hero,  had  at  one  tin 
slapped  the  face  of  Governor  Armig 
the  treacherous  head  of  the  Depar 
ment  of  New  Mexico,  and  that  ofnei, 
had  sent  out  word  to  his  men  to  tali 
Boyd,  dead  or  alive. 

Most  of  the  action  of  the  story  takf 
place  during  a  caravan  journey  acroc 
the  country,  which  the  author  describe 
in  detail,  including  the  many  struggle! 
and  hardships  endured  by  the  travellers 

Crossing  the  continent  with  th< 
caravan  was  a  wealthy  trader  and  hii 
beautiful  young  niece.  Tom  join! 
them  and  appoints  himself  as  their  per 
sonal  escort. 

The  thrilling  adventures  met  witB 
by  the  caravan  include  attacks  from 
hostile  Indians  and  mutiny  within  ihj 
ranks.  These  combined  with  the  allun 
of  a  pleasing  romance  make  up  a  vivir 
and  gripping  story  that  is  sure  to  ho!  ] 
the  reader's  interest  to  the  very  end. 

Other  Books  by  Clarence  E.MuIford; 

BAR  20 

BAR  20  DAYS 

BAR  20  THREE 

BUCK  PETERS,  RANCHMAN 

THE  COMING  OF  CASSIDY 

HOPALONG  CASSIDY 

JOHNNY  NELSON 

THE  MAN  FROM  BAR  20 

THE  ORPHAN 

TEX 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

Publishers         -         New  Yor'. 


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in  this  interesting  and  absorbing  story  an  inspiration  to  youthful  ambition  and 
romance. 

SIR  OR  MADAM.    By  Berta  Ruck. 

An  interesting  story  of  wealthy  young  bachelor  of  secluded  habits,  and  his 
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international  repute.  An  exciting  tale  of  adventures  and  dangerous  journeys 
leading  to  many  cities  of  Europe  and  the  East. 


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